


A Medley For Two, A Medley For You

by Synchron



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: CAN YOU TELL I LIKE HIM SOFT....., Cunnilingus, Dante a goober, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, HE'S TIRED OK LET HIM BE HAPPY.................., I am WEAK to mutual pining, I stan that trash boy, MUTUAL PINING HAS ENTERED THE BUILDING, Oh my god there is so much soft Vergil, One Shot Collection, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Watch all of this be Vergil lmao, also sexual tension, soft Vergil, vergil a thirsty boye, vergil being awkward
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-05-14 13:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19274179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: A collection of one shots, as well as a place for me to fill prompts that I stumble across. Set after the events of DMC5 and will very likely be Vergil centric.





	1. Treasure

**Author's Note:**

> So I have a big list of other prompts I'll be filling, but you're also pretty free to suggest anything else you think wold be neat. I really only have interest in writing for Vergil though.
> 
> Today's prompt: "I've got you."

* * *

Ever a quick study, it didn't take Vergil nearly as long as you thought it would to become reacclimated to life among humans. The modern era, the internet, the shift to a more digital age - he picked it all up surprisingly quickly. In fact, the greatest struggle turned out to be forging official documents for him, and reestablishing his place in society - he'd been long deemed dead, after all - but a few trips to the shadier parts of Red Grave, and a handful of conversations with its seedier folk later, everything he needed to restart his life was slipped through the mail slot of Devil May Cry's front doors a few weeks later. When you asked how Dante came to know such… colourful characters, he simply gave you a knowing smile, and shrugged it off. You're better off not knowing, his eyes would say.  
  
But for all of Vergil's book smarts, his methodical thinking, and measured manner, there are things beyond his control that rear their heads when he's most vulnerable. Things he's helpless to suppress. Vergil may have survived literal nightmares, years of torture, and unwilling servitude, and though he is strong, so, so strong, he still dreams. Of running through a playground as the world he knows falls apart. Of Yamato appearing in his hands through a flurry of tears, a sword taller than he is, in the hands of a child who had no choice but to learn how to wield it immediately. Of returning to what was once his home, now charred and abandoned, to find his mother and brother gone. Of watching his estranged brother, a decade later, shrink into the distance as he falls into the Underworld, hand still outstretched. Of a humiliating defeat at the hands of Mundus. Of whispers of his arrogance, his failure, his lack of strength ("just like your mother"). Of demons slowly tearing his flesh asunder strip by strip, only for it to heal over so they might do it all over again. Of shackles, and a suit of armour that always felt too tight, too constricting, too suffocating. Of his darkest times, powerless and broken, where the only thing that kept him sane was his half of Eva's amulet, clutched so tightly in his hand that the edges carved deep, bleeding welts into his palm - the pain the only reminder that he was still alive.

 

On nights like these, he twitches and jerks in his sleep, breaths coming out in uneven huffs. Sometimes you swear you can even hear him let out a pained sob. And all you can do is wrap yourself around him, pull him close, and gently hush and whisper to him through the pain you feel deep in your chest when you see him reduced to such a state. A pain that's so real and visceral, it surprises even you.  
  
"I've got you."

 

"You're okay."

  
  
"I'm here."

  
  
"You're safe."

 

It's out of instinct that in his sleep, he reaches for a treasure that helps keep him anchored. His arms wind tightly around you and crush you to him - he's so damn close that you can feel his heart thrumming rapidly in his chest, the cold sweat that dots his skin, and the involuntary tremors that run through him. And like that the two of you remain. Your hand rubs gentle circles up and down his back, hoping your whispers are enough to pierce the hold his past has on him. When his eyes finally do snap open - sometimes it's within a minute, most times it isn't - his body goes rigid with a muted jerk. He stays like that for almost a full minute, pale eyes darting around, mind racing to remember where he is, how far he's come, that he's _here_ now, and then he relaxes in your hold. His fingers, digging almost painfully into the flesh of your back, relax, and his vice grip on your loosens, but only just slightly, before he buries his face into the nook of your shoulder. The long, slow breath he exhales is a physical attempt to dispel the weight on him he only ever feels when he sleeps.

 

"I woke you." His apology is unspoken, but not needed.

 

"I don't mind." And you don't. Not really. Not when he lets you card your fingers idly through his hair, and press a tender kiss to the top of his head.

 

Vergil is a quick study, of that, there's no doubt. But there are some things he can't help that take longer to overcome. Things you tell him he shouldn't suppress. However slow, however backwards and counterproductive it might feel sometimes, time heals all wounds.

 

And you will wait with him.


	2. Flirting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something a little more lighthearted and goofy.
> 
> Prompt: "The way you flirt is shameful."

Ever since Dante and Vergil returned from the Underworld, things around the store were never the same. For one thing, the bills never went unpaid again because Vergil has an unsurprising knack for number crunching, and when all else fails, a sword through Dante's chest is a very convincing reminder to skip out on buying junk food. The store is also generally cleaner, thanks to Vergil's... 'persuasion'. But it isn't all paid bills and healthier eating. Devil May Cry is also a lot noisier these days. Lady comes and goes as she pleases, sometimes with a job, but mostly to pester Dante about another debt, and Patty comes by a little _too_ often, usually squawking in Dante's ear about the latest trends in… whatever - he tends to tune her out whenever she goes on another tirade. But there's also you. Or rather, you and the interactions you have with his brother that always have him cheekily peeking over the top of his magazines, trying to listen in. He's not normally one to pay any mind to gossip, but when it comes to Vergil, he's on a strict need-to-know policy.  
  
You know. For scientific purposes such as the Everlasting Quest to Annoy the Everloving Shit Out of His Brother.  
  
Currently, you're seated at his desk, cleaning Ebony and Ivory as a result of a lost bet - you really should've known better than to challenge _the_ Legendary Devil Hunter to a round of darts, but something-something alcohol and lowered inhibitions, and here you are. Vergil sits at his own not far away. He has a book open in his hands, but Dante knows he isn't actually absorbing the contents. Not with the way Vergil keeps glancing up at you every now and then. He does that often, as Dante's come to notice. It isn't a malicious gaze as far as he can tell - and he does like to think he knows his brother rather well by now - Vergil genuinely seems to simply enjoy watching you go about your work. The way you swiftly dismantle Ivory in front of you, rubbing each part clean, holding up another in the light to check for blockages. You work quickly, but you're also thorough and efficient, with no movements wasted. You're like that when fighting too.  
  
"Have you any experience with firearms?"  
  
Upon hearing Vergil's question, Dante shifts his position on the couch on the far wall, hiding his amused smile behind his magazine, and trying to look invested in what he's reading - he actually wonders if he's as bad at hiding it as Vergil is.  
  
You lean back in Dante's chair to stretch your arms up above your head, the guns momentarily forgotten as you consider Vergil's question. "A little bit? I mean you've probably noticed already, but I don't really use them myself."  
  
Dante's eyes return to his brother, who seems oblivious to the fact that he's being watched. Which is probably a good thing, in all honesty. He doesn't really feel like getting stabbed today.  
  
"Is that so? You're quite proficient despite your preferences."  
  
Oh, was that a compliment? Dante has to actually bite down on the inside of his cheeks to keep himself from laughing. Not because he thinks the notion of Vergil being nice to _anybody_ is absurd, but because he didn't think Vergil had it in him to be… well… adorable is the only word that comes to mind. Seeing his usually quiet brother go out of his way to talk to a woman is nothing short of endearing. Hell, why can't he be like this more often? God knows the two of them would get along better for it. Or worse actually, now that he thinks about it - especially since he's made a sport out of annoying his twin brother, so definitely worse. Definitely more stabbings.  
  
"Yeah, I guess. I think I've always been pretty intrigued by them. When done right, the stuff you can pull off with one is pretty damn cool." To emphasise your point, you reach for Ebony, still fully assembled, and spin it in your hands. It's nothing as fancy as what Dante is capable of, but it's not like you get the chance to practice very often. Still though, Vergil blinks, interested.  
  
"I think I see what you mean, yes."  
  
 _"No you don't._ "  
  
The words nearly come tumbling out of Dante's mouth, and would have, if he wasn't already biting down damn nearly painfully on his cheeks. Vergil has never seen the charm of a firearm - he'll use them if he has to, but he otherwise thinks they lack honour. Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. Demons don't give a shit, and _dead_ demons give fewer still. Still, Vergil gets props for maintaining interest in your hobbies. He must _really_ be into you.  
  
Dante's thoughts are interrupted when he hears his chair scrape backwards on the hardwood floor as you rise to your feet, wiping your hands on a rag you've deliberately left aside. "Welp, I'm starving - gonna head to the store to get something to eat." The rag is dropped back onto Dante's desk, and you instead begin rifling through your bag for your purse. "You boys want anything while I'm out? My treat."  
  
Oh _hell_ yes. If you ask Dante, a more perfect phrase has never been spoken by any being on this planet. "If you're offering, I'll grab--"  
  
" _Not you_." Comes your swift reply, at which Dante visibly deflates. "Vergil?"  
  
"No, thank you. But shall I escort you?" Vergil's eyes follow you as you move around the desk now, towards the main entrance, and on his way, his eyes finally meet with Dante, who sits with what Nico would call a 'shit-eating grin' plastered on his face. Immediately, Vergil's expression sours, and were you more spiritually inclined, you'd have sensed the demonic shift in the air as the brothers have their pseudo standoff. Alas, you're blissfully unaware.  
  
"I fight demons for a living, Verge." The nickname for him you've adopted from Dante only ever sounds acceptable coming from you. "Think I can handle ducking to the store on my own. I appreciate the gesture though, handsome."  
  
The sound that leaves Vergil's throat is less a real word, and more of a surprised stutter, forcing him to tear his gaze from Dante to once again land on you. You just-- you just called him handsome??! You think he's handsome? He's well aware that he and Dante garner more than their fair share of attention from others, but up until now, you've never commented one way or the other about it, and the feeling that begins to churn within him at that thought can only be described as triumph.  
  
"Alrighty, I should be back in about half an hour. Don't you boys blow this place up while I'm gone." And just like that, you're out the door.  
  
And just like that Dante finally lets out the hearty laugh he's been holding back for a solid five minutes. "Holy shit, you've got it _bad_. You should see your damn face!"  
  
"Do you always have to be like this?" The roll of Vergil's eyes can almost be heard through his tone of voice. Leave it to Dante to find a way to ruin the moment.  
  
"I'm your _brother_ \- it goes without saying." The younger twin stifles another laugh, hiding his grin behind his magazine again. "And for what it's worth, the way you flirt is shameful."  
  
It's effortless really, the way Vergil blindly reaches for the closest object to him - a demonic token of some kind - and hurls it towards Dante's face.  
  
Hopefully you make it back sooner rather than later, because that bit about not blowing the place up is becoming more and more unlikely.


	3. Puns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil goes from 0-100 at the speed of sound.
> 
> Prompt: a bunch of really bad puns

The way Dante watches you, gaze unblinking and unwavering, unsettles you in a way you didn't think was possible coming from him. Every second that ticks by feels like an eternity, with Dante's ever present smug grin bearing down on you like a physical weight - it's almost enough to drive someone mad. You cast your eyes around the room almost in panic until they come to settle on the old jukebox in the corner. It's seen far, far better days - the whole front panel is caved in, and the lights inside flicker weakly - but you make a beeline for it nonetheless and slap your hand down on the top of the beaten machine, making it whir loudly in protest. You pay it no mind, for your victory is within reach as you proclaim a little too triumphantly.  
  
"All these tracks, but you still had to play me."   
  
"NO…" Having been so certain of his victory, the way Dante's face falls is satisfying in all the right ways, but he's far from defeated in your little game. A cornered rat will bite the cat, or so the saying goes.  
  
It's a slow day at Devil May Cry. A slow month, actually, although nobody's _really_ keeping count. But this is how you've taken to passing the time for today - bouncing puns awful enough to shrivel up the soul of even the most tolerant person back and forth. There have been a few close calls for both parties involved, but so far, nobody has admitted defeat despite there being no real incentive to winning. Unless you count bragging rights, of course. Your last (unsuccessful) bet had you stuck on cleaning duties for a week, and you'll be dead in the ground before you let Dante win another.  
  
Speaking of your last bet with Dante, he leans forward in his chair to gesture at the array of equipment he has littered all over his desk as takes his turn with all the nonchalance of a man with a winning hand. "All these tools, but you still used me."  
  
You grimace - that one was basically free, how did you not see it before?! But not all hope is lost. When directing your gaze back at Dante, you spied the array mounted on the wall just behind him, and with a bounce in your step, you move toward it to gingerly place your hand on one of the blades he keeps on display and meet his grin with one of your own. He can't possibly top this one. There's just no way…!  
  
"All these swords, but I still couldn't make the cut."  
  
Idly, Vergil has been listening to the never-ending back and forth between you and his brother. Admittedly, there have been moments he had to physically stop himself from smiling despite the jokes themselves being borderline painful, but the cheeky, harmless fun Dante often unleashes is infectious, and he finds he's come to enjoy these small, mundane moments more and more. But _he_ will be dead in the ground before he ever admits such a thing aloud to anybody - Vergil has loosened up considerably since his return, but he still has somewhat of a reputation to uphold.  
  
"Damnit." The demon hunter throws the cleaning rag in his hands down onto his desk, and gets up, waving a finger at you. "Okay nonono wait, this isn't over. I got something for this." And without waiting for a response, he stomps off to the back of the store where the modest kitchenette resides. It's the shop's newest renovation, and one Vergil insisted on having installed with the leftover pay he uh… 'obtained' as V - something about how if he had to eat one more pizza, he'll throw himself back into the underworld. It was an empty threat at best, but it worked all the same.  
  
You can hear rummaging coming from the kitchen, an assortment of glass clinking together accompanied by Dante's puzzled murmurs of _'the hell is tumeric?'_ , but you otherwise pay it no mind. Technically, the amount of time he's taking ought to disqualify him from your game, and leave you the ultimate victor, but no official rules were ever laid down, and most importantly, you are a generous god, and never let it be said that you don't care of your boys when they need you the most. So you prop yourself on the edge of Dante's desk, casually crossing one leg over the other and letting it sway to an unheard beat. The movement catches Vergil's eye, and he glances up again, his gaze subtly travelling up the length of your leg. Were they always that long? Did your thighs always look so soft and inviting to touch? To smooth the palms of his hands up until they eventually rest on the globes of your ass? Would you stop him, or would you let him drag you closer until you can feel the hardening ridge in his pants?  
  
He stops himself there with a quiet clearing of his throat, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Such a dangerous train of thought isn't what he should be getting swept up in so early in the day. But of course, his soft noise of displeasure is precisely what gets your attention.  
  
"Everything okay, Verge? Sorry if these puns are a bit too lowbrow for you, but I just can't let Dante win, you know?" Oh he does know, trust him on that, but that isn't why he's suddenly so restless.  
  
"I'm alright." On the contrary, one could say he's more than alright. "But I think I may go for a walk. I could use some air, and these bills, while unfortunate, need paying."  
  
He doesn't catch the disappointment that flickers across your expression, because that's when Dante returns from the kitchenette and drops a literal armful of various herb and spice jars onto his desk. A few of them end up rolling off and clatter noisily on the floor below, but Dante ignores them in favour of resting his hands on his hips, and beaming proudly.  
  
"All these seasonings, and you still choose to be salty."  
  
"Son of a bitch! I bet you don't even know what half of these are!"  
  
"The hell's that supposed to mean?" Dante glances down at the heap on his desk. "I've heard of like… three of them."  
  
"Salt and pepper don't count."  
  
"...One of them."  
  
In the background, Vergil is getting up from his seat and already making for the door, fully intending on taking that walk, but when he reaches the main entrance, he stops.  
  
"By the way." He waits for both you and Dante to turn your attention to him, your banter temporarily on hold. Vergil pulls the door open, and without missing a beat, he continues. "Such a large door, yet you still won't open up to me." And with a flutter of his coat, he's out the door.  
  
He's already a few paces away from the building but he can still hear excited yelling and laughing echoing behind him.  
  
It's always the quiet ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I really want to thank you all for the really warm reception I got for this!! I really appreciate all the kudos and comments from y'all, and I hope I can continue to please..!!


	4. Doze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh heck, writing this chapter has possibly given birth to a full idea. How would you guys feel about a full fic that draws heavy inspiration from From Software's Souls series? I'm mainly referring to the DLC for DkS1, as there are conflicting themes of humanity between that and DMC that I'd like to play around with, but I'd probably draw just a little bit from Bloodborne too. It'd probably be slow burn (looooove me a slow burn romance), exploring both Vergil and the reader character, but with some nice action too, if all goes well. I'm not too sure on other details yet, buuuuuut
> 
> To that end, I've also made a tumblr, so if you'd like to follow me, I'd love to have you: https://synchronmurmurs.tumblr.com/
> 
> Prompt: You make me feel safe

It was supposed to be a simple job. Go in, neutralize the threats, make sure it can't happen again, get paid. Happy days, right? Yeah, that's how it should have been.  
  
The first red flag to the contrary should have been the hefty down payment, with promise of _double_ upon completion of the job, and while you exchanged wary glances with the twins at the time, the prospect of so much money from a single client was simply too tempting to pass up. And so all three of you packed your bags and clambered into Dante's beat up old car - fixed pro bono by Nico at the behest of Nero - and drove the four and a half hours to a small region off the coast.  
  
The second red flag should have been how desolate the town was, how wary of strangers the locals seemed to be. If they weren't afraid, then they were hostile, begrudgingly accepting and allowing outsiders to use their facilities only because the three of you were paying up front, and in cash.  
  
The third red flag is what drove the nail into the coffin for you. Shortly after settling into your shared hotel suite, you visibly bristle as your stomach churns without warning, and your blood runs cold. Your skin suddenly feels too tight on your frame, stretch far too thin over too large a surface, and your heart _writhes_ in your chest, forcing a wave of nausea to wash over you. Bile threatens to rush up your throat, making you double over and cover your mouth with one hand, gulping _hard_ to keep it down. You don't hear your name being called, not over the ringing in your ears, so it's the gentle, yet firm hand on your back that has you returning to your senses, and your eyes meet with Vergil's worried stare as the feeling subsides.  
  
"Are you alright?" It's almost unfair how perfect he - and Dante too, for that matter - always looks, and the contrast is made even clearer considering how _you_ must look right now--  
  
Wait.  
  
"You didn't feel that?"  
  
And just like that, Vergil is all business - his pupils narrow dangerously, almost into slits, and the crease between his brows deepens. Even Dante's stopped unpacking to quietly listen in in that casual way he does. "No. What was it?"  
  
You allow yourself a brief moment to collect yourself, standing up tall once again, and letting your hand slip from your mouth to swipe the back of it across your lips. You didn't throw up, but there's a lingering sort of sourness on your tongue making you grimace all the same. "I don't really know. It's hard to describe." You're unfortunately not the most spiritually inclined person, and thus don't have any basis for reference, so you _know_ that answer isn't helpful in the slightest, but what can you do? To your credit, one doesn't really need keen spiritual awareness in this line of work when demons have an almost natural inclination to make themselves known in loud and obnoxious ways, but it's the fact that neither twin experienced what you just did that frightens you. There's so little that escapes their notice, especially when it comes to the otherworldly, that anything that _does_ slip by can't possibly mean anything good. The fact that the atmosphere of the entire room has shifted dramatically is proof of that. "I felt a sudden chill… then sick to my stomach. I-- I don't know, it was awful. Repulsive, and overwhelming. There's no way this job is an isolated incident… something really fucking bad is going on here."  
  
The twins can only exchange worried glances.  
  


* * *

  
  
Although the sickening feeling never really returned, at least not with the same intensity, it left a sort of restless anxiety in its place, making you twitchy and jumpy. It isn't enough to keep you from working, but it's left you with a scant six hours of sleep over the last three days. You can't properly explain it because you don't fully understand it yourself, but there's something deep below ground that's stirring. You can _feel_ it. Something buried so far below, and yet it's a presence that easily dwarfs your own like it's a physical pressure. Something so impossibly large and _alive_ that for the first time since you officially became a demon hunter, you're filled with  stomach twisting dread. You've tried explaining this to the twins on several occasions now, but they can't seem to make anything of it. How can they, when they don't feel what you're experiencing?  
  
But on the other hand, how can they _not_?  
  
"Where's Dante?"  You ask as you stagger wearily into the suite, kicking the door closed behind you. It's a safe bet to make, but when it's this quiet, it's normally because he isn't in. Vergil looks up from his notetaking - something he's strangely keen on, now that you think about it - to regard you. He especially notes the bags under your eyes, and the way your shoulders slump.  
  
"I had him check out a lead."  
  
"At this time of night?" You take a moment to prop your cleaver up against the wall before you tiredly round the couch opposite where Vergil's seated and unceremoniously drop down onto it with a soft thump, and a creak of old leather. God, it feels good to finally be off your feet, and to reflect this, you heave a quiet, content sigh, and drape the back of your hand over your eyes.  
  
"He was complaining about being bored, so I gave him something to do." Vergil says simply, feeling rather satisfied when he sees one corner of your lips twitch upwards. "But frankly, I'm more worried about you."  
  
"Huh?" It's the only response you can think of to blurt out before your stunned silence becomes suspicious. Would he be able to hear how fast he just made your heart beat?  
  
"You're still not able to sleep." This time, you're not fast enough to come up with a response, although your silence is just as telling. Your sleeping problem isn't anything you ever planned on telling either of them about, and being caught red handed harkens you back to the days you'd get caught sneaking an extra cookie from the jar. Those days are so long ago now. Snapping his notebook closed, Vergil shifts his full attention to you, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You're exhausted."  
  
A dry laugh escapes you. "Nothing gets by you, does it?"  
  
"That isn't true." His eyes flicker down to his hands for a moment, slightly hesitant, and then they're back on you. "I just... notice a lot of things about you."  
  
The bold admission makes you lift both your hand, and your head off the couch to look at Vergil sitting across from you, just to make sure you heard him right. There's a certain unwavering quality in his gaze, although that could be said about him any other day of the week. But there's something more to it too, something that stretches a little deeper than concern for an ally. Your expression softens with the barest of smiles before you settle back onto the couch, and resume your pseudo-rest.  
  
He hums thoughtfully. "I was worried you'd be repulsed by the idea."  
  
"What, that you care enough about someone to notice they aren't well? I mean sure, if it was Dante, maybe." You take a second to chuckle halfheartedly at your own joke. "Think what I'm trying to say here is that I'm flattered, so… thanks? It means a lot." And if you weren't so damn tired, maybe you'd have the energy to be a little happier about what that could possibly mean. Dante had always branded his brother as cold and unapproachable, as someone who having a conversation with oftentimes felt like pulling teeth, but the Vergil that you've come to know is anything but. He can be direct, always choosing to be succinct and proper in his mannerisms and speech, but he's never been callous. If you're honest with yourself, he's charming in a reserved sort of way, with his own special brand of wit that differs from his brother. Where Dante's is loud, and often rather crass, Vergil's is almost cheeky.  
  
At your thanks, he smiles to himself. "Of course."  
  
A comfortable silence falls over the two of you after that. Vergil returns to sorting through his notes, and you, lying there on the couch, listening to his relaxed breathing, the occasional scratching of pen on paper, and the soothing, crisp sound of pages being turned, you eventually drift off.  
  


* * *

  
  
When you awaken, it's to an unfamiliar weight on you, and as you slowly blink awake, mind groggily chasing after body, you notice you're covered by Vergil's coat, the collar of which settling past your chin and just high enough for you to catch a vague, lingering scent of spice.  
  
"I was surprised to see you dozed off." Vergil is still on the couch opposite you, but there are more papers scattered on the coffee table between you now, with a few extra books open, pages of interest marked with scraps of torn paper. He's been busy, it seems.  
  
Sitting up, you let the coat fall to pool into your lap, and with stiff fingers, you pull at it, lifting it to straighten it out. "Yeah, you and me both. How long was I asleep for?"  
  
Vergil seems to ponder that for a moment. "Not as long as you'd like, I'm sure. Perhaps around forty minutes?"  
  
Oof. Yeah. Definitely not as long as you'd like. That's probably why despite the sweet gesture on Vergil's part, you still feel like shit. "Nowhere near long enough. I'm gonna borrow this for a bit longer if that's okay with you." _This_ being his coat, which you pull back up to your face, nestling comfortably into the silk lining. Who knew he smelled this good?  
  
"Thought you had trouble sleeping." His commentary is idle, but there's a hint of coyness just beneath. He's smiling again.  
  
"I do. But I guess you make me feel safe." Your eyes slide closed, and the gentle rustling of papers resumes. "Don't tell your brother I said that though. He might get jealous."  
  
No. Heavens no. What transpired here tonight is a fleeting moment of private intimacy, a kind of vulnerability from both parties that need not be shared.  
  
Vergil flips another page. Jots something down. "Wouldn't dream of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I can be found on tumblr at: https://synchronmurmurs.tumblr.com/
> 
> And as always, thank you all so much for your kudos and comments! I appreciate each and every one!!


	5. Ruse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THIS CHAPTER IS A BIT OF A DOOZY. Let's check out what we've got in here:
> 
> ☑️ Soft Vergil  
> ☑️ Mutual pining  
> ☑️ Posing as couple cliche  
> ☑️ Big Dumb Fancy Party cliche  
> ☑️ Soft Vergil  
> ☑️ SO MANY CLICHES  
> ☑️ M U T U A L P I N I N G  
> ☑️ Sexual tension  
> ☑️ UnReSoLvEd sexual tension
> 
> I'm sorry, but also really not sorry at all.
> 
> ALSO! For reference's sake:
> 
> [Vergil's suit](https://imgur.com/u5Nx71w)   
>  [Reader's dress](https://imgur.com/edgKv9W)
> 
> There's kind of a lot that gets squeezed in this chapter, but I hope it's acceptable nonetheless...! Please enjoy. <3

"I don't see why you can't go." You stare down at the flyer in your hands as if it just insulted your mother. After glimpsing it over your shoulder on his way to his desk, Vergil is similarly bothered, albeit much more lowkey.  
  
"Can't." Dante seems a little too proud of this, idly spinning a small dagger in his hands as he talks. "Everybody who's aware of the business in this city knows my face. If I show up, you bet your ass it'll turn into an immediate shitshow, and we lose our only chance at getting what we need. Besides, this is a job that calls for subtlety, and babe, I dunno if you've noticed, but that's a look I can't rock."  
  
Your mouth opens with a witty response already lined up and ready to go, but the words never actually leave your mouth because, well… he does have a point there. Almost desperately, you turn to Lady and Trish, propped on either corner of Dante's desk, and before you can speak, you're beaten to the punch. Seems you're not getting a word in edgewise today.  
  
"Same with them. And because I know you'll suggest it, Nero's out too. He won't lift a finger if it means putting Kyrie in danger, and since this is a tango for two, that's a no go. Don't pass go, don't collect two hundred bucks." Dante's eyes, more calculating than their usual carefree quality, look between you and Vergil, who sits rolling his eyes. "So that leaves two."  
  
You're clenching your jaw so hard, the muscles are visibly rippling, and you march over towards Dante's desk to slap the flyer down onto it. "I hate you sometimes."  
  
"Why?" His grin is perhaps a touch too playful considering that two whole people want to upend an entire dumpster (bonus if there's slimy garbage water pooling at the bottom of it) over his head.  
  
"It's just a party."  


* * *

  
  
A party.  
  
And not just any party. A formal ball with a roster of mostly A-listers and politicians. You don't care for the function itself, or who it was organised by, or why. The only matters of importance to you are the whispers of a cult that's gaining popularity among the upper class socialites - the people with too much money, and not enough empathy - who are apparently looking into ways to open portals to the underworld. Normally, the items tied to those kinds of rituals cost a pretty penny on the black market, but that's why only the richest of the rich are permitted an invitation to this 'prestigious' cult. Honestly, it's usually ignorant idiots like these who dabble far too much into subjects they don't fully understand, often led by someone who read one occult magazine and now thinks they've seen everything. Maybe the world would be better off if you let them reap the (bloody) consequences of their actions, and then take all their money to rebuild the damn usable parts of Red Grave, but alas, that isn't a viable option. So what you're stuck with is attending a function to identify members of the cult so that you can get to the bottom of this mess once and for all. Objectively, it seems easy enough - have a few drinks, sample some hors d'oeuvres, mingle and chat to the right people, and you'll probably be out in an hour with all the info you need. So then why are you still so nervous?  
  
Oh right.  
  
Vergil.  
  
The invitation the client had procured was for two, and since Dante had ruled out all possibility of literally _any_ other combination of Devil May Cry's staff going (which is highly suspicious in its own right), that left you and Vergil, the two lesser known, and depending on who you ask, less infamous members to handle the job. It isn't that you _don't_ like Vergil. The problem here is the exact opposite actually, and you're not sure you're up to working so closely with him. Sure, you'd consider yourself to be on rather good terms with him - you talk frequently, you occasionally joke at Dante's expense, ~~sometimes you flirt with him,~~ and there have been instances where you've fought together too, but this is far, far more intimate. To be attending a function as… as a couple seems like something straight out of a fever dream, and yet here you are, clad in a slinky dress, hair and makeup done by Trish. When she was finished with you, you barely recognised yourself in the mirror. Glitz and glamour are things that are lost on you, not because of any personal disdain for it, but more that your current lifestyle doesn't really accommodate it. So being squeezed into a fancy dress, and being pampered in the way that you were felt like a fairytale. And the real kick in the ass was seeing Vergil waiting at the bottom of the stairs in the shop, dressed neatly in a suit and vest, hair slicked back a little more formally than usual. It was downright surreal.  
  
Not to mention the number it was doing on your heart. Lord almighty, that suit is fitted to perfection - accentuating his shoulders and slim waist. The trousers also mould impeccably to the shape of his ass, but not like you were looking or anything.  
  
Taking a deep breath, you angle your head just enough to glimpse him out the corner of your eye, watching him as he drives you both to the venue in a rental car - Lady's idea to keep anybody off your heels should anything go wrong. Although the streetlights passing overhead cast a series of foreboding shadows over his face, he seems as composed as ever. Vergil doesn't get angry the way Dante does - it only ever simmers just below the surface, never rising, and never boiling over. Where Dante is bite, Vergil is venom. But from where you're sitting, he doesn't seem upset. He doesn't seem much of anything, honestly. Dante had whistled appreciatively at Trish's work when she helped you down the stairs. Not that you're unpretty without the makeup and flattering dress, just that Trish has a way of working a little extra magic into anything she touches - a byproduct of the natural flair she possesses. But Vergil? He'd given you a onceover and that was that. There's a part of you that was hurt by the lack of a reaction, but what were you expecting from him, exactly? It's not fair of you, on both yourself and him, to be hurt by an assumption. You're here to work, and that's what you should be focusing on. So you tuck a loose lock of hair behind your ear, and steel yourself for the night ahead. You have a job to do, and you'll be damned if you don't see it through.  
  
Coming to a stop at a set of traffic lights, Vergil takes a moment to glance over at you, silently assessing the mood. Your eyes are on the window, watching the world outside, but the way you absently chew on your bottom lip isn't lost on him. It's a nervous tic you have, something you seemingly unconsciously do when you're unsettled. Are you that worried about the job? You were so angry at Dante for forcing you both on this mission tonight, but was it because you think you don't belong in such a setting? (Nonsense, your carefree, quick thinking attitude could blend in anywhere.) Do you think you can't handle it? (Of course you can.) Or… because you don't want to be seen so intimately with him? At the thought, Vergil grips the steering wheel just a little tighter, feeling something in his chest constrict. Maybe he'd made the right choice earlier in not saying anything to you about the way you looked. About how his mouth went a little dry at seeing you descend the stairs in that godforsaken dress. It's elegant, long sleeved, and though the front of it dips rather enticingly, it's mostly a rather conservative look. Or it would be if the whole thing wasn't damn near see through. It's by virtue of the patterning and beads and sequins that dot the dress that your modesty remains protected. There's thankfully no split down the side - that would have ended him right on the spot for sure, being the legs man that he is - but nearly the entire lower half of the dress is sheer. Enough for him to glimpse the smooth expanse of his greatest weakness, your legs. Enough for him to want more. While you were going over the final plans for the mission with Trish, Dante had given him a light pat on the shoulder, calling him a 'lucky bastard' at which Vergil only grunted. It was the only response he could utter at the time. Before the two of you left the shop, Dante pulled his brother aside to give one last nugget of advice:  
  
_"Make sure you tell her before the night's over, or I'll knock you out myself."_  
  
As straightforward as Dante usually is, he also possesses an infuriating capacity to be intentionally ambiguous. Tell you _what_ , exactly? That you look beautiful? Or how he feels about you? Either of those options seems out of place for the moment, one far more so than the other. No. For now, it's best he focuses on what he's here to do, because it seems that you're doing exactly the same.  


* * *

  
  
When he pulls up at the venue - the extravagant and lavish mansion of some aristocrat - there's a moment where the tension between you both peaks, broken only by the squeak of leather as Vergil half turns to regard you.  
  
"Should we go over the plan again?" Ah, his first words spoken to you all evening, and it's about work. That stings a little, honestly.  
  
"No harm in that." You maintain a professional stance with a confidence you didn't know you had. Maybe it's the emphasis you're putting on your task tonight that's doing it. "Considering the turn out, I think we should stick together first, get a good idea of the layout of the area before we split up. I doubt this job will go south - all these people seem more bark than bite - but in the event it does, I'd rather we know where we are, and how to get out quickly."  
  
"Of course.." And it's a sound idea, really. You always like to have a contingency plan in place should things go awry. Better to have and not need, than to need and not have, after all, and that preparedness is just another dot point on the exhaustive list of things he likes about you. "Once we get inside, we'll dictate a rally point. After we make our respective sweeps, we meet back up there and relay what we find."  
  
"Yeah, sounds good." You inhale deeply through your nose as one final act of reigning your nerves in, and then you reach for the door handle.  
  
"Wait." Vergil stops you, and when you regard him questioningly, his response is equally as simple. "Just wait."  
  
_I want to do this properly_ , are the words that get left unsaid.  
  
As the valet approaches, Vergil steps lightly out of the car and hands the man the keys. It's only when he begins to move around to your side do you realise that he intends to get the door for you, and the realisation of it makes your heart thud rather pointedly as you go completely still. The door swings open, and there he is, half bent over and extending a hand out to you. From under your lashes, your eyes dart between his open hand and his face, unsure if you should take him up on the offer, but you remind yourself that the two of you now have an illusion to maintain until the end of the evening, so with an easy smile - one that's more natural than any onlooker would think - you let him help you to your feet and hook your arm through his when he offers it. He's rigid about it, you can tell by the way his muscles tense when you come into contact with him, but you chalk it up to nerves on his part too, because from here on in, the night ahead is one grand play, and you are but two actors.  
  
Just two foolish actors.  


* * *

  
  
The inside of the venue is equally as opulent as the outside. The lights are soft, the drapes are velvet, and there's a live damn band playing soft music for anybody in the mood to dance. Waiters dart in between party goers with trays of champagne glasses and a variety of hors d'oeuvres, but for anybody wanting a little more, a fully staffed bar lines the back wall. Everything glitters and shines in the light, and all in all, it's something straight out of a fairytale. It's just a crying shame that your purpose here tonight is anything but harmless fun - you still have a full interior to mentally map out, and the way you've both opted to get this done is by dancing in slow circles on the designated dancefloor, watching over each other's backs to fill in the gaps the other can't, or doesn't see. Given the circumstances, on top of not wanting to stand out too much by simply walking the perimeter of the building, a dance was the safest and most discreet option. So you awkwardly tucked your arms under his, splaying your hands comfortably over his back and remain adamant in keeping your head turned to the side (you note he's doing the same) when you feel Vergil's hands settle low on your back. You've never been this close to him before, having him literally in your arms, chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat of his body through the thin material of your dress, and you hope to god the sweat on your palms doesn't soak through the layers of his suit. Distantly, you know that isn't possible, but it's a miracle you're capable of getting any kind of coherent thought in at the moment.  
  
"Didn't think you could dance." As soon as the words leave your mouth, you realise how standoffish and presumptuous they sound, and so you immediately amend. "I mean, considering how long you've been away. Didn't think you'd have the chance to learn. Stairs leading to the second floor, by the way, obscured by the band's stage. Seems oddly hidden in a 'in plain sight' kinda way."  
  
If Vergil's at all offended, he doesn't show it. Not that you could know anyway, the bulk of all his emotion comes from his eyes, and you've made it a point to avoid eye contact with him for the moment, and if you have your way, for the rest of the night. "I saw." A beat. "And though it was cut short, I _did_ have a formal upbringing. Learning a few basic steps was part of that."  
  
"So then why are you still so stiff? Are you angry at something?"  
  
Oh hey, foot? Meet mouth.  
  
At that, Vergil actually missteps and is forced to recover by following the momentum to spin the both of you around. It must have seemed clumsy to anybody watching, but for the most part, a lot of the other guests are ah. Rather self absorbed. When he regains his footing, you feel him shift against you to look at you. Obligation dictates you do the same, and for the first time since you first started working at Devil May Cry, you commit a grave mistake - you meet his eyes dead on, and what you see, what you _really_ see actually steals your breath. When you first met him all those months ago, it was hard to pin down his exact eye colour. They're so pale that they have a tendency to reflect anything even remotely bright in the surrounding environment, taking on their hue and obscuring their true colour, but up close like this, even in the soft glow of the lights overhead, you can finally see they're a soft grey to match his hair, accented with streaks of varying shades of grey. They're as ethereal and beautiful as the rest of him.  
  
"Is that what you think?" He seems genuinely surprised by this. "I… apologise. That isn't the case."  
  
Your breath hitches in your throat, and your heart fluctuates wildly, loud enough in your ears that it drowns out the soft music playing in the background. If he isn't angry about anything… "What is it then?"  
  
Vergil's lips part as if he's about to say something, but he hesitates at the last second and his brow twitches faintly. He's uncomfortable - a look you've never seen on him before. Ever. "I assumed you were uncomfortable with the idea of…" He tries to reach for the right words. "...being seen with me. Like this."  
  
_Together._  
  
And this time, it's your turn to be surprised. To the point where it seems like a physical burden was removed from you, enough that it almost makes you laugh. "Vergil, I-- No. That's absurd, it isn't you, of course it isn't you, I'm just… Out of my comfort zone in a place like this." In your relief and in an attempt to hide your own foolishness, your head drops, forehead settling on his shoulder, your hands resting just a touch more firmly against his back to reassure him just that much more decisively. "You don't have to walk on eggshells like that. Not around me. I trust you, you know? And…" You sigh, deliberately letting the next half of your sentence fall away.  
  
_And you're the only person I'd_ want _to be stuck doing this with._  
  
It's a good thing you preemptively hid your face from his view, because his expression softens, the corners of his lips turning upwards just slightly, and the way he subtly, so subtly it's barely there, presses his cheek against the side of your head has you veritably melting, making you grasp lightly at the fabric of his suit jacket. His quiet hum feels almost like a purr when you're this close to him. "I'll keep that in mind." He'll try to anyway. It's hard when you shyly nuzzle further into his shoulder. When he catches another hint of that perfume you're wearing. When you're just being you. For nearly his entire life, he chased his ambitions for purely selfish reasons, and though his time as V humbled him, though his age has mellowed him, there's still some small part of him that hasn't outgrown his selfish ways, because he finds he wants this single moment to stretch on for just a little longer. Just a little. But as always, things never go _right_ for him. Whether it be that he fell down the wrong path, or that his actions caught up to him… Tonight though, it's his vision that's too keen, and his intuition being razor sharp that serves as his foil. Vergil's sigh is nigh imperceptible. "The waitstaff are passing messages to specific guests. Keep that in mind."  
  
You'd be lying if you said you weren't disappointed, but your job takes priority. "Yeah…"  
  
The surveillance of the interior continues on without a hitch at a much more relaxed pace than when you originally started. As a matter of fact, the longer it went on after your brief chat, the more natural things seemed to feel - something that's both a blessing and a curse.  
  
"Glass doors by the bar, leading to the courtyard. In case we need to beat a hasty retreat." Your murmurs are soft, loud enough only for Vergil to hear.  
  
His quiet chuckle is felt more than heard, leaving behind a pleasant rumble that reverberates through your being too. "In those shoes? I'm not sure that's likely."  
  
"You can fly in your transformed state, can't you? You can carry me."  
  
"And leave behind the car?"  
  
"It's a rental under Morrison's name. Wouldn't be our problem."  
  
The response you're given is an airy laugh, more akin to an amused snort than anything else, and then the dance begins to slow as Vergil - having naturally taken the lead - comes to a stop. His head ducks down toward you to whisper quietly. "Double doors in the back corner. Guarded. Try to keep an eye on it and see who goes in and out. And--"  
  
You cut him off, already knowing what he intends to say. "Listen for common themes and repeated words in conversations - could be code. Try to get names - the more, the better." You meet his eyes once more, and again, you think they're going to be the death of you. Such a compelling hue, soft and striking at the same time. "I know, Vergil."  
  
There's a hint of something now, in those eyes you've so quickly come to love. A spark of pride. "Meet me at the bar when you're finished." His hands don't move from your waist, and there's a lingering sense of… _something_ hovering in the air between the two of you. It's brief, one of those things easily missed if you aren't already looking, but Vergil leans closer to you for half a second, angling his head in a particular way, the tips of his fingers applying just a touch of pressure on your body before he pulls away just as quickly, and he releases you from his grip. It all happens so fast, you can't be sure anything even occurred. "Be safe."  
  
And in the next moment, he's gone, already weaving through the other couples dancing on the floor, leaving you flushed with your pulse thrumming rapidly through your veins. You keep replaying that moment through your head, processing what he was trying to do before he clearly thought better of it, and when it hits you, you can't help lifting a hand to gingerly touch two fingers against your lips as the flush deepens.  
  
He'd meant to kiss you.  


* * *

  
  
You're not sure how people can do this regularly. Mingling with socialites and aristocrats is exhausting - playing coy and lowkey flirting with some of them is even more so. But the reminder of a hefty paycheck waiting for you at the end of all this gave you the energy to soldier on, weathering mind numbing gossip that seems ever popular among this sort of crowd. You did pick up on a few particular phrases and buzzwords though, so your efforts weren't for naught:  
  
A gold mine.  
  
The Past.  
  
The Present.  
  
The Future.  
  
A strange emphasis on dignity.  
  
And perhaps the most pointed and obvious of all, a single name that no matter how you slice it, just can't be of this world - Berith. It isn't a name you're familiar with, but as a former resident of the underworld, you get the feeling Trish will at least have heard of it. All there is left to do now is to meet up with Vergil and trade notes, so here you sit at the bar, the tip of your finger idly tracing the rim of your champagne glass, watching the bubbles endlessly streak to the surface.  
  
Vergil…  
  
At the beginning of the evening, you weren't sure where you stood with him, and as ridiculous as it makes you feel, he… he definitely tried to kiss you back then. Right...? The more you think about it, the less sense it makes, and the more you want to bury your face in the crook of your arm, shrinking more and more into yourself until you damn well disappear. Since when were you this hopeless(ly in love)? You've flirted with Vergil before, but when did you start getting serious about it? When did those playful jokes and teasing quips become a little more real? When did you start hoping he'd feel the same? Come to think of it, maybe this is why Dante seemed so insistent that you go with his brother. For how casual and by seat of his pants Dante flies, he's far smarter and on the ball than people give him credit for. You'll have to have a word with him when all this is over.  
  
Feeling a warm hand at your back, high enough that it remains formal, but low enough to be suggestive of something more, as you're so very acutely aware, Vergil returns to your side. Lifting your head, you swivel in the bar stool to half turn toward him.  
  
It's only for an instant, but his gaze flickers down to your legs before they immediately dart upwards to your face. God, he needs to stop doing that. You don't deserve to be ogled like this. "Is something wrong?" The concern is clear is in his eyes, and you do your best to smile reassuringly at him, because you're absolutely not thinking about that almost kiss. Nope. Definitely not. Stop staring at his lips.  
  
"No, just… tired from having to keep up with all these people." Your voice drops, suddenly wary of the barkeep that stands but a few paces away, and you gesture this to Vergil with a pointed glance in the man's direction. "How'd you go? Did you find anything?"  
  
Silently picking up on your cue, Vergil steps toward you, face dipping down to hover right by your ear. The hand that sits at your back becomes a bit more insistent, nudging you ever closer to him to use his body to shield you from view. To any onlookers, you appear as any pair of lovers would, engaging in conversation if not a little too intimately. But it's that very notion that urges people to look away. Case in point, the barkeep is now awkwardly polishing glasses, suddenly finding the other side of the room incredibly interesting. Vergil's voice, when whispered into your ear is like velvet, low and husky. Under the sleeves of your dress, you feel goosebumps form on your skin, and a faint tingle pooling elsewhere. You will it away. "Repeated mentions of gold. And I have the names of three members, one of whom is a councilman. Depending on how we play our cards, he may make bringing this cult down difficult."  
  
"A member of the damn council. Of course." If you had the room to, you'd rub tiredly at your temple, but Vergil stands so close that you can't raise a hand without making some distance. And to be completely honest… you like this closeness far too much to want to leave it so soon. "I also heard a few mentions of someone called Berith. I'm not up to date with demonology, but that doesn't sound like a human name to me."  
  
"No. But I can't say it's familiar to me."  
  
"Gotta make us work for the paycheck, I suppose."  
  
It's so comfortable, this easy back and forth. Gentle and light. So different from the dry biting sarcasm Vergil often finds himself throwing at Dante. "It would be too easy otherwise."  
  
An unfamiliar voice calling an unfamiliar name makes the both of you look up to see a well-dressed man eyeing you curiously. You recognise him as Davis Saville, someone you spoke to earlier in the evening, and it takes another second for you to remember that the name he'd called was the alias you'd given him. You know, just in case.  
  
"Is that man bothering you?" He asks, clearly referring to Vergil.  
  
God, you'd.. completely blanked earlier on when he asked if you were here alone, and because you wanted to avoid the inevitable questions saying that you weren't would bring - 'who are you with?', 'why aren't they with you?', 'where are they?' - you'd simply said yes. It was just easier that way, and you didn't quite account for running into someone again. With this many people present, you figured the chances of that were slim. It seems you were wrong.  
  
The way Vergil's hand slides just a little further around your waist almost defensively indicates that he isn't particularly pleased. Whether it's with the interruption, the fact that he's being seen as a nuisance, or with the idea that you didn't mention him is up in the air.  
  
" _No_ ." You make sure you emphasise that single syllable, wanting to make it clear that Vergil is in no way encroaching on you. "No, this is my…" Oh shit, you have to think quick before it becomes suspicious, so you grab the first word your brain reaches for. "Fiance."  
  
_Fuck._  
  
Is it your imagination, or does Vergil's grip slip a little when you say that?  
  
Davis' eyes narrow rather suspiciously, his gaze flickering to your hand, meaning to look for a ring, and sensing this, you slide it around Vergil's waist to hide it underneath his jacket. He seems to weigh his options now, deliberating on whether to believe you, but he eventually relents. "I'm sorry, you'd said before that you were here alone, and I noticed he was…" He shakes his head, suddenly rather sheepish. "Nevermind. How long have you been engaged?"  
  
"Seven months now." The answer comes from Vergil himself whose since shifted his stance, becoming a little more relaxed. It's a very specific answer, one that flusters you more than you let on. Seven months is how long you've known each other for. Maybe he'd simply chosen it at random, but surely there's no harm in hoping for a deeper meaning. Surely…  
  
"That long?" Despite yourself, the question is genuine, and you find you're leaning into him all the more, maybe a little too swept up in the illusion you're both creating as you go along. "Time flies, doesn't it?"  
  
Vergil hums in acknowledgment, making Davis smile rather ruefully. He steps forward, stretching a hand out for the both of you to shake. "Sorry about that again." You make sure you reach forward with your right hand. "All the best to the both of you."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
When Davis leaves the two of you, you release a deep, relieved breath. "Sorry Vergil, I should have at least mentioned something about you. I just wasn't sure what to say when the question came up - figured avoiding the topic altogether was the safer option."  
  
There's a faraway look in his eyes as he ponders something in his mind. You said he was your fiance. Not boyfriend. _Fiance_ . He doesn't think he's the type to settle down and get married, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't open to the idea. He's come so far since his return, learned so much about embracing his humanity, is _still_ learning so much, so who's to say he couldn't? Just as long as it's with you. "It's alright." He finally says, watching as Davis finally disappears into the crowd before he turns his attention back onto you. "Was there anything else you were able to uncover?"  
  
You shake your head. "I didn't get any names. Just more mentions of gold. Talk of the past, present and future. And something about dignities of man, I think."  
  
Vergil's eyes narrow as he thinks. He likely doesn't realise it himself, but the thumb on the hand that still sits snug against you repeatedly traces the curve of your hip. Up and down, up and down in a soothing manner. " _That_ sounds familiar to me. There is a demon said to hold all answers to the past, present and future. He is able to turn any metal into gold, and bestow dignities unto man. The name eludes me, but I can find out when we return. If it matches with the name you've overheard, I believe we can settle on a goal for this cult."  
  
"And a proper countermeasure." You chime in.  
  
"Yes." His hand slides from your body as he rises to his full height. "Come. We'll make one final sweep, see if we can't uncover a last set of clues. Otherwise, I believe what we've already found is sufficient."  
  
It's uncanny how easily and naturally your hand finds his. Vergil does little more than regard it with a vague cant of his head, but he does return the gesture, wordlessly entwining his fingers with yours.  


* * *

  
  
You didn't discover anything new in the end, but that's alright. The longer you let it sit, the more certain you feel that the portal the cult intends on opening is meant to summon a demon named Berith. Perhaps they think he will grant them gold? Answers to life and the universe? It's impossible to say for sure, but the one thing you _are_ certain of is that the summoning of Berith will absolutely not go as intended. Demons have a way of luring the meek and gullible to their deaths, and whatever this Berith may promise, you know his price will be steep. All that's left to do from here is tail the cult members you unveiled tonight and put an end to their plans. It's by and large the more satisfying part of the job - something you'd have delighted to have taken part in - but you and Vergil have done your share, and more than earned your respective cuts of the paycheck. No, from here, it's Dante's show, and he can clean up the damn mess. With a faint sound of exertion, you stretch your arms in front of you, curving your back right into the car seat for that little extra satisfying burn.  
  
At your side, behind the wheel again, Vergil huffs, amused. "I've seen you fight demons and come out of it less tired."  
  
Settling properly back into the seat again, you shrug. "That's a different kind of tired. Trying to keep up with gossip among people I don't know and who make more money than I ever could is exhausting in a way I didn't think was possible."  
  
"Should I take you straight home, then?" It's purely by virtue of it being late that the streets are clear enough for Vergil to ease off the accelerator safely, slowing just in case he needs to make a quick three point turn..  
  
"You don't think I should be there to help relay everything to Dante?" It isn't that you're offended by the idea, you always just assumed you'd head back to the shop and spend the night on the couch there. Having Vergil drop you off at home feels… dangerous somehow, but in a way that you can't really identify. You're not _in_ danger, just that the idea of the two of you being truly alone is dangerous in itself. You don't let your imagination run off with the idea, you don't _want_ to let it, but you gulp all the same.  
  
"I think I can handle it on my own. You should rest." Vergil takes a moment to check over his shoulder for oncoming traffic before he takes the turn and heads in the opposite direction towards your house. "Whatever comes of it, I'll catch you up tomorrow when you come by the shop." Your fingers twist the portion of the seatbelt that crosses over your chest. It's a movement that catches Vergil's attention in the periphery of his vision, and he finds himself looking over at you again, head tilting, confused. "Would you rather I didn't?"  
  
"No, it's…" Complicated. You rake a hand back through your hair, letting it drag to the back of your neck where you rub it tiredly. "I actually just expected to go back to the shop with you and then uh… pass out on the couch."  
  
The look that Vergil gives you is borderline incredulous, perhaps one of the most exaggerated looks he's ever had to give you. It'd actually be rather funny were the subject matter not… well. This. "I don't recommend that. Dante has a tendency to play his music at... inopportune times. Call it a pastime, considering we don't technically require as much sleep as you do." While not entirely a lie, there's a part of him that simply doesn't want you in any vulnerable state around his brother. Of course, he trusts Dante won't do anything foolish - even being away for some twenty years, he knows his brother isn't that kind of man. Assuming he's interested in you at all - Vergil simply doesn't like the idea of Dante seeing you. No, that still isn't quite right. Chancing another glance over at you, he notes the way your dress clings to you, sees how the material dips rather invitingly between your thighs as you sit in the seat, the opaque quality of it making your skin seem more alluring than it normally would. He doesn't want Dante seeing you in that dress more than necessary. It's a sight he wants to keep to himself. A memory with and of you he'll carry with him going forward. Tonight was special, and he wants to keep it that way.  
  
You on the other hand, suck in a sharp breath through your teeth. Yeah, being jostled awake at an unholy hour in the morning by heavy rock music really doesn't sound like a good time - especially with how tired you actually are - so it's begrudgingly that you accept Vergil's suggestion. "Okay, fair enough. You've convinced me." Something in the pit of your stomach churns and flutters nervously. What you do from here is purely unscripted. Not part of the mission. Away from prying eyes. All of those notions merely further the jittery anxiety that's slowly building.  
  
And just like that, the tension returns.  


* * *

  
  
You can feel his presence behind you as he fishes around inside his inner jacket pocket for your house keys, but rather than hand them to you, he reaches past you to slip the key into the lock to open your door himself. You have to give him credit for maintaining the act even here when it isn't necessary anymore, and the thought of it carves a painful, almost hollow feeling in your chest.  
  
"I'd feel more comfortable leaving after I check your home." He turns to look down at you, checking for permission. "If that's alright with you."  
  
"Yeah. Of course." It's strange how not even half an hour ago, you'd never felt closer to Vergil, but being alone with him now brings a different kind of tension than the one you initially started the night on. Hell, maybe it's _because_ of the night's events that things have come to this.  
  
Stepping into your home, the first thing you do is go to remove your shoes, propping one hand on the wall beside you to bend over to liberate your feet with the other. The heels weren't that high to begin with, but the balls of your feet are feeling sore all the same. Vergil meanwhile lingers in the doorway, unable to help his eyes trailing down your body, following the curve of your ass and down your legs. Though only partially, you had to hike up the skirt of your dress to properly get at your shoes, revealing the bare skin of your calves to him for the first time that night. It certainly isn't the first time he's seen your legs before - the single ceiling fan in Devil May Cry is hardly adequate in the summer, and so you often take to wearing shorts around the store when not on a job - but this is decidedly different to those casual afternoons. This is more personal. More sensual. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to bring himself back to reality, and it's with an awkward jerk that he quickly moves past you to make a quick round of your house so he can get the hell out before he does something he might regret. Belatedly, as he moves through your home, he realises that _this_ was the cause of your earlier apprehension. _This_ was why you didn't want him to drop you off at home. How could he be so stupid as to not pick up on it? Of course you weren't able to tell him the true reason - there's no reasonable way to bring it up.  
  
But lord, if that image of you wasn't a sight to behold.  
  
By the time he's done, you've only just made your way to your bathroom to get started on removing all that makeup - a testament to just how quickly and desperately he wants to leave.  
  
"Everything's fine." He says from out in the hallway, even though everything isn't. The air between the two of you is thick with a genuine and palpable weight to it. You didn't know what it was before despite it building ever since your second run in with Davis. But here, where you're both alone and together, where nobody can see you, where nobody could possibly know what might transpire, you finally realise what that growing strain is.  
  
It's the unspoken desire for him to stay.  
  
And you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he feels it too. Why else would he be in such a rush to leave, when for the rest of the night, he'd taken every opportunity to be close to you? All you have to do is ask him and you know he'll comply without a second's hesitation. "Vergil." All you have to do is ask, and he'll say yes. "I…"  
  
"What is it?" His voice is quiet. So, so quiet. Almost as if he's afraid of what you'll say next.  
  
The silence hangs in the air like a tangible object, the both of you merely waiting for the other to make a move, to give any indication that this is wanted, to open the floodgates just a little so that the pressure doesn't end up crushing either or _both_ of you. "Thank you…" Your words sound rather pathetic in hindsight. "For looking out for me."  
  
Inwardly, Vergil berates himself for getting hopeful. It was foolish of him to have expected anything at all. Foolish, foolish, _foolish_ . "Of course." He tries so hard to sound convincing so that the disappointment doesn't colour his tone. Because leaving is the right thing to do. Isn't it? "You're a good friend to me, I'd be remiss if I didn't."  
  
You look down at your bathroom counter, fingers gripping the edge of it. A friend. Just a friend. An ally. A comrade in arms. That seals the fate of the night then, you suppose. Your eyes close, and you let out a soft breath of air, recalling the way his hand felt so closely entwined with yours. The way it felt on your lower back. And discarding the way it might have felt on your bare skin. "Hey, before you go, I um. Need to ask you for one more thing. I mean-- I didn't want to ask, but you're the only one here, so... The zipper. On the back. I can't reach it on my own." For what it's worth, you're telling the truth. You vaguely remember Trish telling you exactly this when she was helping you into the damn thing.  
  
There's a rather pregnant pause from the hallway behind you as Vergil clearly hesitates, heart and mind in a discernible conflict, but what else can he do? Leave you to wrangle yourself out of that dress on your own? You'd probably turn up to the shop tomorrow still wearing it because you never managed to get it off. So it's with a heavy reluctance that he steps into your bathroom, waiting for you to tug your hair out of the way so he can see what he's doing. Sensing him come up behind you, you proceed to wordlessly do exactly that, revealing the nape of your neck to him, and giving him another brief hint of your perfume. It does nothing but further the test on his patience, on his control. You make it a point to avoid looking at his reflection in the mirror, opting to stare listlessly off to the side as he braces one hand on your shoulder while the other finds the zipper's pull. The soft whine of it as he pulls it down is the only sound in the bathroom for what feels like entire minutes - you can't be sure either of you took even a breath in that time. It's when Vergil reaches the clasp of the bra you're wearing that he stops, figuring you can get the rest from there, and he snaps his hands back as though he's burned himself, taking a step or two back as well for good measure.  
  
"I'll let myself out." There's a specific cadence in his voice you've never heard before. It's quiet, but unsettled. The sound of a man desperately trying to do the right thing. It makes your heart swell damn near painfully in a burst of overwhelming emotion. You don't know what it is exactly, just that it hurts just as much as it gives you warmth, knowing that he would never do anything to you without your consent. "Good night."  
  
"You too, Vergil. I'll see you tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty damn interested in writing up a follow up for this fic. At the moment, and if I can scrounge it together, it'll be three parts in total, and maaaaaaay get a bit spicy 👀
> 
> I'd also like to take a quick second to say that I'm genuinely blown away by all overwhelming feedback I've been getting. Whether it's a quick kudos, or a comment, I can't iterate enough how warm and fuzzy it makes me feel to know my writing brings even a bit of joy to your day. Thank you all so much, y'all are way to kind!! ;A;


	6. Fool's Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first of all, I cannot state enough how overwhelmed I am by the response I got from you all last chapter. I was worried it was filled with a few too many cliche tropes, and maybe Vergil was a little too soft, but I'm floored by everybody's kind words. ;A; Really can't thank you guys enough...!
> 
> MOVING ON. Here comes the s p i c e. There will be Emotional Spice in the conclusion of this mini series next chapter, but I really just wanted and excuse to write something raunchy *nervous sweating* I admit it's given me ideas for more dumb smut later on *NERVOUS SWEATING INTENSIFIES*
> 
> Hope you all like it!!
> 
> Prompt: "The past isn't a prison."

Vergil sits for the longest time in your driveway. The keys are in the ignition, but he doesn't - or can't? He isn't sure - bring himself to start the car, and with only one lonely streetlight to provide light, most of the street is covered in darkness. He finds there's something welcoming, something comforting in sitting in the dark as he is though. Some would say it's smothering and all consuming. Some might even be afraid of what they'll find waiting within it. But for Vergil who not only knows and has seen what lurks in the absence of light, but has _survived_ it, it's cover. It's safe. Here, he can sit, and breathe, and _think_. It's easier to do without the sight of you in front of him, taunting him when you likely don't realise you're even doing it yourself.  
  
It would be so easy for him to get back out. To knock on your door and just lose himself in you the very moment it opens. You wouldn't object. You wouldn't say no. He knows this. But what of the morning? When the magic of tonight's events have well and truly passed, and the momentary illusion need not be maintained? Would the sting of regret grip you? Would things just… return to normal?  
  
Would it irreparably damage one of the few good things he has in his life?  
  
With a clenched jaw, he starts the car and heads back to the shop.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
It isn't surprising that Dante is still awake when he finally makes it back. It's just shy of 1:30 in the morning, but he sits at his desk, still fully dressed with his feet casually propped up on it like it's 1:30 in the afternoon. He's scraping at the bottom of a tub of vanilla pudding when Vergil walks in, looking up from his late night snack when he drops the car keys onto his own desk and goes to remove his suit jacket, draping it over the stairway's handrail.  
  
"So how'd it go?" The little pudding cup has long since been scraped clean, but there's no harm in making triple sure. These are the expensive ones, and being virtually broke all the time means you know not to take rare indulgences for granted.  
  
Vergil is rather pleasantly surprised that Dante seems interested in asking about the job first and foremost. He'd actually been steeling himself for a barrage of invasive questions the second he walked through the doors. "It went well."He reaches up to his neck and pulls at the knot holding his tie in place. "We were able to find--"  
  
"Not what I meant."  
  
Aaaaand there it is. This is why he can't have nice things.  
  
Opting to completely ignore Dante to finish removing his tie, Vergil does exactly that, leaving it over the handrail with his jacket, and then the top two buttons of his shirt are being undone. He may enjoy the aesthetic of formal attire, but tonight, the extra layers are a bit too constricting. Dante meanwhile pouts into his pudding cup, rather disappointed that that avenue of questioning was thrown out the window so soon. But that's fine, you're not the only one who keeps a contingency plan on hand - Dante just has to go on the offensive from here.  
  
"Huh." He leaves the exclamation at that, and already, Vergil can tell he isn't going to like this conversation. Dante tends to play coy when he has a point to make because he knows that's the most efficient way of pissing his brother off, and when he gets mad, the easier it is to get him talking. Vergil completely understands this, and so it's his job to keep a level head - it's something of a game the two brothers now play instead of fighting. Literally fighting, that is.  
  
And because Vergil knows Dante will keep making surprised and obnoxious noises until he takes the bait, he decides to simply cut out the middle man - he really can't be bothered with the back and forth tonight. " _What_?"  
  
Hoo boy. This'll be a doozy. "Nothing. Just that I expected to see a hickey or two on you when you came back. If you came back at all." Haphazardly tossing the empty cup onto his table (it somehow lands the right way up), Dante lets the little plastic spoon it came with dangle between his teeth as he talks. "Maybe a smear of lipstick on your shirt or something too. Not seein' anything though. Shame." The _look_ that Vergil gives Dante is potent enough to shatter glass, but there comes a point where being on the receiving end of such glares over extended periods of time begins to lose the intended effect. For Dante, that was close to 30 years ago.  
  
Vergil meanwhile, bides his time. Neither of them have any particular need to sleep any time soon - he literally does have all night - so he takes a moment to roll up his sleeves at the cuffs twice, enough to give him a little more freedom, and then he steps around his desk to the short bookcase he keeps behind it. It isn't particularly well stocked, at least not with anything he'd enjoy reading leisurely. No, these are all for work. Tomes on demonology, the occult and the supernatural - all things he might one day need. Tonight is one such occasion. Berith was the name you'd uncovered, wasn't it? Berith... Vergil's fingers skim the spines of his selection, looking for one particular book. When he finds it and turns back around to get comfy at his desk, he finds Dante standing on the opposite side of it, arms folded across his chest with that damn spoon still flicking at random between his teeth.  
  
"I gave you the perfect set up, pretty much presented it to you on a silver damn platter, and you've got the balls to show back up here unfucked. And here I thought I couldn't be any more disappointed in you, _son_." He puts a heavy emphasis on that final word, drawing a rather backwards parallel to the rebel child rolling up at home past curfew. The spoon in Dante's mouth begins to flicker a little faster, a physical manifestation of his agitation.  
  
Agitation that falls on deaf ears. Pulling out his chair, Vergil moves to sit in it, reclining comfortably and flipping the book in his hands open to a random page that he only pretends to read. "You know, in most other situations, the parent figure would be rather _pleased_ their child wasn't off fornicating."  
  
"Yeah well we're not exactly what people would call a normal family, so you'll understand if I just..." When Dante's sentence slowly trails off, Vergil looks up just in time to see his brother literally disappear from view, the only trace that he was ever there at all is that damn spoon hanging in what almost seems like zero gravity for just a brief moment before it begins its descent towards the floor. Vergil has maybe less than half a second to react, to fend off whatever's coming - and he is more than capable of doing so - but instead, he lets himself fall prey to Dante's headlock. It isn't particularly tight or uncomfortable, and that's enough of an indication that whatever is happening right now isn't serious.  
  
That's why Vergil just nonchalantly flips to the next page of his book, adjusting the height at which he's holding it to get a better view of it. "Watch the suit."  
  
"I'll watch the suit if you can give me an answer that I'm happy with." Dante readjusts his grip, widens his stance for better balance. "Tell me why I shouldn't just put you in the damn ground right now."  
  
Lifting his gaze to the ceiling, Vergil pretends to think. "If you were capable of such a thing, I'd likely already be there. Yet here I am."  
  
"You get real bitchy when you're in a bad mood, you know that?"  
  
Another page is turned, as calmly as if he were reading for leisure with a coffee within arm's reach. "And you consistently bring me to this point anyway."  
  
"Okay, so since you're in the business of being a little smart ass tonight, why don't you tell me why you didn't have the guts to tell her? Afraid of rejection?" It takes a second, but Vergil's response comes in the form of the very air beginning to churn and almost _vibrate_ with a low, ominous rumble. Overhead, the lone ceiling fan begins to sway, and the lights start to flicker and crackle. That's how he knows he's really starting to grate on Vergil's nerves. It's how he knows he's getting through to him. He just needs to push him a little more. "After eating the forbidden fruit of a pissed off tree and obtaining that stupid power you've always wanted, _this_ is what you're scared of?"  
  
The snap of the book being slammed down onto Vergil's desk is virtually instant, and then Dante feels a hand grip his wrist and forcefully twist it, removing it from around his neck. It isn't easy, Dante is struggling to push back against it, but in terms of physical strength, the two brothers have always been a near match. "Stay out of my business, Dante." That should be all the warning Vergil needs to give, and it would have been if he was dealing with literally anybody else.  
  
"What are you scared of?"  
  
" _I am not scared._ " Vergil pushes up out of his seat and he distantly hears it clatter on the floor behind them, but pays it no mind. Instead, he slides his foot out, to try to knock his brother off balance, but the two of them have been fighting with and against each other for so long now that being so easily read isn't a matter of telegraphing his moves too obviously - they just intrinsically understand how the other fights. Vergil's leg sweep is met with Dante twisting, lifting him for just an instant to offset his momentum, and just like that, they're once again at a standoff.  
  
"Then why are you _here_ and not with her?"  
  
"I have no need to explain myself to you."  
  
"For fuck's sake--" Dante is the aggressor this time, reaching back to grab a fistful of the back of Vergil's vest (so much for watching the suit) to help swing him around. They both end up colliding with Vergil's desk which slides forwards a few inches from the impact, and when the dust settles, he's behind his older brother, arm locked under his chin in a chokehold, squeezing only just slightly as a mild, but empty threat. "Why don't you think you deserve to be happy?" The question makes Vergil's eyes widen in startled realisation, and in a split second, he goes from being a coiled spring, ready to counter, to going completely slack in Dante's hold, merely letting his arms dangle uselessly at his sides. Sensing his brother's submission - though he never really intended to escalate the fight anyway - Dante lets go, takes a step back. The heavy static in the air begins to fade, the rumbling ceases, the fan stops swinging, and the lights resume their usual hum.  
  
"I can't lose her." Vergil grips the edge of his desk, effortlessly pulling it back into its original position, and then leans against it. His shoulders sag, head dipping to stare down at nothing. Talking like this with Dante is a rare occurrence. It's something that needs to happen more often between them, for both their sakes, but usually, something  - sometimes a bone, sometimes a piece of furniture - has to be broken before that happens. But slowly, surely, they're making progress, learning how to read more than just attacks from each other. "Her friendship is irreplaceable. If I lose that.."  
  
Heaving a sigh, Dante rubs tiredly at his face with both his hands. How can his brother be so smart, but also just really iredeemably _stupid_? "You're not gonna-- jesus Vergil, she's crazy about you, how do you not get it? And that's _me_ saying that." _Him_. The same man who's been looking past Lady rather than directly at her for… fuck, how long as it been? He barely remembers now. "Even if you can't tell her how you feel, telling her she was beautiful tonight is as good a foot in the door as any." He falls into step next to his brother, and though Vergil is technically older, even if by a few scant minutes, Dante reaches up to drop a hand atop his head. Not to pet, not to pat, just simply to be there in the reassuring way their father used to do so, so long ago. The weight of the gesture speaks for itself because Vergil _lets it happen_. "Listen. You've fucked up, you've made shitty decisions, but you're learning, and you're taking steps." His hand presses down a little heavier for emphatic purpose, and then Dante smiles. It's small and crooked, but they're _both_ still figuring this talking business out. "You've got a shot at happiness here, and I want you to take it.  
  
"Because the past isn't a prison, Verge."  
  
The silence that hangs between them after that is serene. Comfortable. And though Vergil doesn't verbally respond, his own hand rises to give his brother pat on the back. A silent thanks.  
  
It isn't the first time he's thought it, and before his time is over, it won't be the last.  
  
He is lucky.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Though they're beginning to fade, to become less frequent and intense, Vergil still occasionally succumbs to night terrors. It's something that he just can't help - when he's stressed about one thing or another, they almost always crop up. What they're about is normally some crueler, reverse game of Russian Roulette where the single shot is a dreamless, and thus peaceful sleep, but tonight, a night terror isn't what plagues him. Tonight, he dreams of you wearing that dress. It's bunched up around the front where his hand presses insistently between your legs, his fingers moving in deliberate slow strokes over your still clothed slit. You've already soaked through the gusset of your panties, not that that's some large feat when they were such a thin, flimsy thing to begin with - a piss poor excuse for an undergarment. The one hand you have propped against his chest for balance grips the lapels of his coat, and distantly, Vergil wonders why he's in his regular getup as opposed to the suit. Bah, doesn't matter. Not when he has you mewling so sweetly against him, your hips gyrating in an attempt to find more leverage against his probing fingers. They never do though, because whenever you push forwards, he pulls back, always just out of reach of where you want him the most.  
  
"Vergil…"  
  
He almost groans at the sound of your voice saying his name, so thick with pleasure. It makes him step closer to you, his body flush up against yours, urging you higher up on your bathroom counter. His free hand spreads your thighs before lifting one of them and pushing up and back to rest one heeled foot on the counter too, leaving you spread wide and so helplessly vulnerable to his gaze, his hands, to everything he can't find the words to tell you. His lips skim your neck as they find your pulse and he's pleased to feel it hammering rapidly away under your skin, rewarding you by thumbing your clit and pressing down on it hard enough that your entire body jolts at the sensation, forcing a breathy moan to tumble from your lips.  
  
"More… please…" You sound so weak, so timid, so caught up in your pleasure when he's barely even begun, and the thought of you wanting this as badly as he does makes his cock strain inside his pants, pulling so tight he thinks it might honest to god tear right through.  
  
"So needy." His tongue laves at your pulse again, but he complies with your request nonetheless, his deft fingers yanking your panties to one side to circle at your entrance with the very tip of his middle finger. He'd thought you were wet just from what he'd felt through your panties, but with the obstruction now gone, he actually does moan against your throat at how easily his finger is able to slide against your folds. At how _warm_ , almost bordering on hot you feel. "How many fingers would you like me to start with? One won't be enough for you, will it, the insatiable woman that you are." They're rhetorical questions at best, ones he isn't expecting any real answers to because he's already pushing two fingers inside you, relishing in the way your cunt clenches once around the (welcome) intrusion, the tight ring of muscles working to try to suck him in further. It makes his cock throb near painfully as he imagines what that might feel like wrapped tightly around him and he absently grinds against your thigh just to relieve some of that pressure, that desire to be touched, or at the very least the desire to be freed from the confines of his pants. He doesn't give in though, because this is about you, and about how he wants to see you come undone on his fingers, his mouth… god, he'd probably even get off on seeing you grind down against Yamato's sheath. In fact--  
  
The scene shifts, and the warmth of your body is gone from his arms, but that's because you're on his desk at the shop now. Everything usually atop it is mysteriously missing, there's just you, near naked, but still wearing your heels and the same panties as before, kneeling with Yamato pressed between your legs. The sword is just about as long as you are tall, and it extends up past your face, buried snug between the swell of your breasts and giving him just the briefest hint at what it might look like to have them, so soft and supple, surround his dick - another fantasy for another day, surely.  
  
Even in its sheath, the Yamato is a thin weapon, surely not enough for you to realistically grind yourself against with any real success, but your thighs squeeze down around it nonetheless as you tentatively roll your hips against it. Vergil can see your slick dripping down the length of his weapon, doesn't miss the way you have the sageo wrapped around your hand as you continue to rut and angle it just so. What is that a metaphor for, he finds himself wondering amidst the erotic display in front of him. Is it that he has you wrapped around his finger, or is it the other way around?  
  
You let out something akin to a whine as you press yourself down harder on the Yamato, and you're so close now, Vergil can tell with the way your thrusts become a little more desperate. Your other hand drops to the desk to help anchor yourself as his name falls from your lips, each repetition pitching higher until your thighs begin to quiver and then they're clamping down around the Yamato as you cum, your back arching to emphasise your breasts, and the length of the sword still stuck between them.  
  
Vergil doesn't get to watch you ride your climax out on his sword, because suddenly he has you perched on the edge of his desk in the very next instant - another inexplicable change in the flow of his dream as his mind piles one fantasy atop the other, seemingly never ending. Your panties are somehow gone, and he has his face buried between your legs, nibbling, slurping and suckling like a man starved. There's no lingering taste on his tongue despite your slick covering half of his face, but that's only a minor disappointment when you're so responsive to the way he lightly sucks on your clit. He loves knowing he's the one pulling those sighs from you. That he's the one making you buck your hips right into his eager mouth, and Vergil actually can't help it now - he doesn't remember unbuckling his pants, but he doesn't need to he supposes, because none of this is real - his hand grips his cock, now achingly hard and dripping enough precum that it pools onto the floorboards between his legs, slowly pumps it in time to his tongue flicking against you, and god he wishes he could taste you, that his mind filled the taste of your arousal with something, _anything_ for him to go by, but hearing you moan so helplessly as he so greedily eats you out is good enough. He senses one of your legs slipping over his shoulder, and the hand that isn't busying itself with his cock rises to trail the length of your thigh and cup your ass, dragging you ever closer to his face. Above him, he can hear you dissolving into a sobbing, whining mess as you press the heel of your shoe into the middle of his back to urge him deeper between your legs.  
  
And who is he to deny you? You who he feels such deep affection for that some days it borders on painful? If he'd met you sooner… years ago, even, maybe he wouldn't have fallen down the path he did. Maybe he wouldn't have had to suffer as he did. Maybe he-- No… what good is hindsight here and now? What's important is that he has you _now_ , to help him fill the void his selfish decisions left him with. What's important is the way your thighs are bracketing his head, the way your fingers grip his hair, and how you beg him to please let you cum oh god fuck Vergil _please I'm closeI'mcloseI'msoclose_. He feels another gush of slick trickle from you, pouring down his chin now, and he all but plunges his tongue into your depths as he feels his own pleasure begin to peak--  
  
Then his eyes shoot open, and he awakens with a start, body flushed and slightly sticky with sweat. His sweatpants aren't so lucky, having been soaked right through with precum, and as he gains his bearings, the ache between his legs reminds him of the vividness of his dream, washing a guilt so potent over him that he presses the butt of his palms so hard into the sockets of his eyes it starts to hurt. But closing his eyes only brings visions of you back to him. The way he had you perched on your bathroom counter, dressed hiked up around your waist, and his fingers inside your velvety cunt. The way you shamelessly ground yourself to an orgasm on the Yamato. The desperate press of the heel of your shoe against his back, the feeling of your soft thighs around his head…  
  
Vergil's neglected cock twitches, and then he's rolling out of his bed, making a swift beeline towards the bathroom. He gets inside, locks the door, all but tears off his clothing and gets into the shower, not caring in the slightest that the water is ice cold. Normally, it would be a welcome contrast to the heat that rolls off him in waves, something to ground him and pull him back from the brink, but it's too late for that now - his blood burns far too hot to be stopped, and when he reaches for his length, finally grasping it, he actually can't help the low groan that escapes him. He gives himself a tentative stroke, feeling the electricity course all the way up his spine, and then his eyes close, trying to chase the fleeting images of you in his dream before they dissipate. Vergil gets as far as remembering the way you sounded when crying his name before he cums hard with a hiss of yours through his teeth. His senses, save for the intense pleasure that has him jolting with each hot pulse, white out completely, and it's a full minute before the hiss of the shower returns to his ears, before he feels the water cascading down his body, only just now beginning to warm. Letting out a shaky breath, he leans up against the wall, his entire body is buzzing with a pleasant warmth despite the cool water that still hits him.  
  
And yet he isn't done. Though it no longer hurts from being untouched for so long, he's still hard, wanting more, more, _more_ , and somewhere deep down inside, Vergil feels disgust at himself.  
  
He doesn't act on it again, he just lets the guilt wash down the drain.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
You pause right outside the entrance to the shop, hand resting on the door handle, but otherwise not moving to pull it open. You didn't really want to show up today, the events of last night are still a little too fresh, a little too raw to be processed and dealt with so quickly, but you also refuse to let it bother you enough that you'd begin avoiding Vergil. That isn't fair on him. But just as you're about to rip the bandaid off and enter the building, you hear a series of heavy stomps coming toward you from inside, and then the door is swinging open itself, yanking you forward with it, and nearly making you barrel straight into Dante's chest were you not quick enough to regain your footing.   
  
He only seems mildly apologetic as he stands to the side to let you in. "You know I can see your shadow under the door, right? You've been standing out there for like, 5 minutes. I'm almost embarrassed."   
  
You blanch. God, it's not even 11am and you're already blanking hard. "Shut up," you grumble, shoving one of three paper bags you're carrying into his chest, "here. Breakfast."   
  
"Ooh~" He seems genuinely excited at the prospect of a free snack, and though a banana muffin isn't exactly the most hearty or even healthy breakfast, Dante has never been one to turn down free food.   
  
Unless it has olives on it.   
  
You nudge past Dante and enter the shop fully, noticing first and foremost that Vergil isn't at his desk. Secretly, you're relieved, but you find his lack of presence odd when he's normally the first to rise in this household. Trying to seem natural, you leave the second paper bag in the middle of his desk, and then make your way over the couch by the wall - it may as well be your couch at this point - and get comfy, crossing your ankle over your opposite knee. It isn't the most elegant way to be sitting, but to hell with that. This is Devil May Cry, not the White House. "So what do you think?" You ask, absentmindedly reaching into the last bag for your muffin.   
  
"Of?" Dante at least has the decency to not speak with his mouth full, but that's because you distinctly remember Vergil's very persuasive argument that he is an adult and should eat like one. I mean, what other option is there but to agree when there's a phantom blade embedded into your hand, effectively pinning it to the table?   
  
Seriously? The look on your face can only have been learned from Vergil, and in the back of his mind, Dante thinks that maybe putting the two of you together actually isn't that good of an idea. For his wellbeing anyway. "Uh. The job? Didn't Vergil tell you?"   
  
"Nope." His tone is both stupefying and infuriatingly simple as he samples another bite of his muffin. "This is good by the way, thanks."   
  
Well of course it is, you've been going to that cafe for ages now -  it's a little nugget of gold hidden away from prying eyes that Vergil recommended to you himself - but that's not your concern here. "He said he'd debrief you after he dropped me off last night."   
  
"Hm? Oh yeah, we talked. Just not about the job." Dante pretends to be invested in peeling the paper cup off the baked treat in his hands, but out of the corner of his eye, he's gauging your reaction. Which is confused to say the least. You understand Vergil's priorities well. When he's working, he's typically all business - you experienced that firsthand last night. So what could he have possibly told Dante that holds precedence over the clues you both uncovered? Part of you thinks you know what it is and  _ that's _ why Dante's being deliberately obtuse.   
  
"What did you talk about?" Compared to just a moment ago, your voice is so subdued now, as if you're worried Vergil is nearby and listening.   
  
"About y--"   
  
Speak of the devil and he shall appear.   
  
A resounding slam fills the room as the door leading to the back of the shop is slammed back on its hinges, effectively silencing Dante who innocently, if not rather cheekily retreats behind his desk to eat his muffin. Vergil strides into the main office area with purpose, shooting Dante a warning glance as he moves past you. From what you can gather, he's fresh out of the shower, which probably means, oddly enough, that he awoke not too long ago.   
  
"Good morning." You do your best not to sound stiff and unnatural, but with how you're avoiding looking at him, it might already be too late for that.   
  
Vergil half turns to look at you, and good lord, just seeing your face reminds him of his debauchery in the shower and the fact that he's still half hard. Yet when he speaks, his tone is measured. Even. Leaving you unaware of just how tense his body is as he does his best to will it away through sheer determination. You deserve more from him than being objectified. He deserves more than that too. He just has to keep telling himself that.    
  
The past isn't a prison.    
  
"Good morning."   
  
"I uh, bought you a muffin." You say with a nod, gesturing past him to his desk.   
  
"Thank you." He follows your gaze to the lone bag sitting in the middle of his desk, and despite himself, he smiles. You can't see it from where you're sitting, but Dante does - admittedly, he was worried that Vergil would seize up around you, and withdraw into himself the way he used to months ago, leaving Dante to carry the conversation. But there's something heartwarming in knowing Vergil is taking what he said last night to heart. He'd never say it out loud, but he's actually kind of proud of his older brother in that regard.   
  
The only thing left to do is see what he does from here.   
  
"So." Dante tosses the final morsel of his muffin upwards, keen eyes watching it arc high into the air before he catches it easily in his mouth. "Is someone finally gonna clue me in on what you guys found?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like updates/random mumblings/the eventual hashing out of my full DS1 DLC inspired fic, feel free to follow me on tumblr: https://synchronmurmurs.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thank you so much everyone!!


	7. Lover's Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hghghghhhhhh I'm so sorry for how long this took to come out. I kept kind of flip flopping between what sort of direction I wanted to take it. One minute, it was sweet, and the next it kind of just... devolved into straight up porn *dabs at sweaty brow* But here it is at last, the conclusion to this weird little mini series that cropped up out of nowhere!!
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support. 250+ kudos and a heck of a lotta comments is far more than I was expecting this collection to ever get. Anything I can say just makes me feel like a broken record at this point, and I really can't thank you guys enough. I'm sorry to Silenaislife for not giving the dress another cameo in this chapter - I couldn't find a way to make it naturally fit in with what went on, but I am _definitely_ going to be bringing it back for a future update!!
> 
> Anyways, that's enough of my rambling, I hope you guys enjoy!! ❤️❤️❤️

For the most part, Dante listened carefully to what you and Vergil had to say, nodding along where appropriate. He hadn't heard of Berith before either, but a proper perusal through Vergil's modest library confirmed your suspicions and whatever the cult's intentions are, Dante would see to it that their summoning would not go as planned.   
  
He'd told you and Vergil to kick back and relax, and to leave the heavy lifting to him - he'd made sure to sneer in Vergil's direction when he said that, making the older twin widen his eyes in mock, tired surprise. And as promptly and succinctly as that, he'd left.   
  
"Kind of wish he was that thorough with everything else he does." Casually reclining against Vergil's desk, you make sure to wait at least a whole minute before you say that. You've come to learn the hard way that the twins have particularly sharp hearing, and honestly, if anybody has it in them to double back just to get the last word in, it's Dante.   
  
"You can only say that when you've lived with him for more than three weeks." Vergil scrunches up the bag his muffin came in, and rather effortlessly tosses it into the trash. Effortless is a good word to describe nearly everything the twins do, or so you've come to realise.   
  
"That's… oddly specific. Why three weeks?"   
  
The way they fight, the way move, the way they recline at their respective desks…   
  
"That's about when the charm of having him around wore off."   
  
...the way he looks at you, the way his behaviour changes ever so subtly whenever he's alone with you…   
  
You look down at the floor to hide your smile. Effortless is also how he's able to soothe your nerves. You're not sure what changed over the course of the night, why he seems so relaxed and more sure of himself, but it warms you to see him so nevertheless. As soon as Vergil emerged from the back of the shop earlier, you expected to feel awkward being in the same room as him - the actions (or perhaps inactions?) of last night driving an unwanted, but irreparable wedge into your friendship - but to your pleasant surprise, discussing the party last night didn't feel like a burden, like something ominous and heavy. The words came easily, and though sometimes you felt Vergil's gaze on you, you didn't feel the need to shy away. Originally, you thought it was because Dante was there too - his easy-going presence dispelling any tension in the air - but even after he left, nothing changed. No, with an effortless ease, it was Vergil who had allayed any such notion, and in hindsight, it seems rather foolish to have arrived at such a conclusion at all.   
  
No wonder you fell in love with him.   
  
It's then that something out the corner of your eye catches your attention - a splash of bold colour and flamboyance you're not used to seeing amongst the earthy tones of Devil May Cry - and so you turn towards whatever it is to see the tie that Vergil wore last night, draped over the handrail of the stairs along with his suit jacket. That must be where he left it after he got back last night. He couldn't have even waited until he got back to his room, huh? Smiling, you step over to it, pulling it free to hold it in your hands and feel the silky fabric under your fingertips. He really did look good in this…   
  
"Hey, can you do me a favour?" You tilt your head back so that it half hangs over your shoulder, and when you meet his questioning gaze and the vague tilt of his head that you've come to understand as an affirmative response, you lift your hand to let the tie dangle from between your fingers in an unspoken request. If Vergil can be confident, then so can you. "You should wear these more often, you know. It suits you."   
  
"Some would say ties look good on anybody." Even as Vergil's saying this though, he's rising from his seat anyway to round his desk, coming to a stop in front of you, his hand rising to pluck the tie from your grasp. He never manages to grab hold of it though, because in a bold move, you loop it around his neck yourself, tugging at each end of the tie to properly gauge the right length you can knot it at. If you're honest with yourself, you only half know what you're doing - you usually default to online tutorials for this kind of thing - but you're taking a chance with this. You want to see how far this will get you.   
  
"I guess they do? But the formal look is especially good on you." You're not looking at him, partly because you're invested in trying to get this damn windsor knot to look right, and partly because you're not  _ quite _ so brave that you can meet his eyes just yet.   
  
Okay, so it's mostly the latter, but the tie is a good excuse.   
  
You don't need to look at him to hear the smile in his tone. "And what would you say if I told you I used to wear an ascot on a daily basis?"   
  
The question makes your hands go still, and a laugh spills from your lips despite your attempts to quell it. "I'd pay real money to have seen it, is what I'd say. My god, how long ago was this?"   
  
Vergil closes his eyes. That part of his life seems so distant now. He was so young and foolish then, believing he could do and become anything. How different would his life have been if he hadn't stayed in the Underworld? If he hadn't been so stubborn, so reckless? He opens his eyes again, fixes them on you, reminds himself that this is where he belongs now. Not there, in the past. "In my defense, I was a teenager. And if you're going to be judging anybody, I'd like to point out that Dante chose not to wear a shirt at all."   
  
You really can't help it now, crumpling right into his chest to stifle your laughter, the half tied windsor knot temporarily forgotten. "You're ridiculous. The both of you."   
  
His expression softens. Even he's beginning to notice it now - the way he tends to treat you differently. But it's most poignant here because of all things to call him, of all the things other people have called him - stoic, moody, even grumpy according to Nico - ridiculous is a word that only you would choose. Because those laidback quips are things he only shows to you. Though it's tentative at first, he wraps his arms around you, finding that it wasn't his imagination, or simply that he was swept up in the events of last night - you fit just as snug against him as he remembers. You don't reach quite as high against him as you did last night, and in the back of his mind, he remembers that's because you were wearing heels then. That's alright though, he kind of likes it this way.   
  
"I didn't tell you last night - a faux pas on my part - but," for a split second Vergil hesitates, but as with nearly everything he does, his recovery is as swift as it is graceful. "You looked beautiful last night."   
  
Immediately, your face reddens, and you hate how such a simple gesture has you shrinking into yourself. It's a damn good thing he actually can't see your face right now, because you're not sure you'd be able to handle it. You generally like to try to keep a levelhead no matter the circumstances, and being flustered this easily is… counterproductive to say the least. Hell, you didn't blush when Dante said as much. Although on the other hand, that kind of behaviour is all but expected from him - Dante dances around words with a sort of casual, carefree grace that it's hard to know when he's being serious. As a result, hardly anything he says ever sounds serious. But it's different with Vergil. You're so used to the sort of indirect attention that he specialises in that an honest compliment has, for all intents and purposes, left you literally speechless.   
  
"I chose not to say anything because I was concerned with how you'd take it. That it wouldn't mean anything to you come the next day." He pauses, trying to find the best way to convey what he's thinking. He's normally so good at this. "We had a task to accomplish, and an illusion to maintain. I feel I may have overstepped some boundaries in spite of that, and for that I apologise."   
  
Your heart is racing, and you're gripping the tie you still have in your hands so tight that there's no way that he can't feel it being pulled taut, lowering his head just enough that he catches the scent of you. "What exactly are you saying, Vergil?"   
  
The question, the direct and straightforward nature of it, actually stuns him to silence because even  _ he _ isn't quite sure where he's going with this. Is he trying to tell you that you were beautiful last night? He said that already. That he was worried about what you thought of the act? He covered that already too. He peels the layers of his reasoning away bit by bit, discarding them because for the moment, they're not needed. It isn't that he regrets the night's events. Or even that he regrets leaving as soon as you both did. Eventually, he gets to the core of what he's trying to get across to you.   
  
"We don't have to pretend." That statement alone feels so impossibly dangerous in a way Vergil can't really understand. He's faced hoards of demons, surpassed his nightmares, and yet what hangs in the balance, suspended on that single sentence is overwhelming in a whole new way.   
  
Finally, you find the courage to lift your head from his chest, because anything less than meeting his eyes as equals would feel disingenuous - giving him your full attention when you know how uneasy he must be feeling is the least you can do. It's what he would do for you too.   
  
And then you do what any other person would do in your situation - you clench your fists around that damn tie, and  _ pull _ . Hard enough that for the split second he's thrown off balance, you lean up to him to finish what he tried to do last night before he left you at the party.   
  
You kiss him.   
  
It's clumsy and a little too hasty, but it's distinctly  _ you _ , Vergil decides, absently forcing you back against his desk. Your hands fall from the garment around his neck, a far cry from how perfectly it was done previously, to drape them over his shoulders and leisurely card your fingers through his hair. His lips, those goddamn lips, are moulding so perfectly over yours, and when you feel something smooth and wet swipe over your lower lip, what else can you do but give in to him? He steps forward, and with his desk at your back and nowhere else to go, his thigh ends up between your legs. It must have been what he wanted, because his hands daringly fall to your hips to keep you trapped against him, inching just far enough around you that he teases at grasping your ass but never fully commits, and it's that very deprivation that makes you whine into his mouth. Vergil only ever pulls away from you long enough that you can both take a breath, and even then, it's paltry because he's still only just millimeters away before he's swooping right back in as if impatient. As if he's making up for lost time. In a way, you suppose he is. You can feel a faint tingle beginning to form between your legs now, a warmth that blossoms and spreads outwards from your core.   
  
And that's when the phone rings. Because of course that's when the phone would ring.   
  
You both go still when the shrill ring of the phone fills the office, and when the two of you part, it's with great reluctance, with neither of you having any real desire to create any distance from one another. Vergil's thigh is still between your legs, hand still grasping your hips, and he seems quite content to simply stay there with his cheek pressed against your temple, staring past you at the damn phone on Dante's desk, weighing out his options. For a moment, he genuinely considers tossing a summoned sword at it, and it's only the idea of having to explain why the phone is suddenly broken to his brother that keeps him from doing it.   
  
"Should… should we answer that?" Your breathing is slightly laboured, not because you didn't get enough air, but because your pulse is running rampant and your body is aflame.   
  
Vergil's tone is bitter, "Unfortunately." His thigh slips away, and his fingers give you one final squeeze before he releases you. You notice a slight pause before he lifts the receiver from its cradle, the exasperated nature of it, and then he's holding it up to his ear. "Devil May Cry."   
  
You don't hear what's being said on the other end of the line, but you  _ do _ see the way Vergil's jaw tightens and deduce it can't be anything good, so you follow him over to where he's standing. Even with his back turned to you, his senses are sharp - they have to be - and he turns toward you just as you step in line with him. You don't say anything, you just tilt your head, silently asking if everything's okay. He doesn't answer you, but he does lift his free hand to tenderly graze your cheek with the backs of his fingers, and god does that make you weak at the knees.   
  
" _ I know _ ." In contrast to the way he's handling you, his tone is sharp, annoyed even. And there's really only one person who Vergil would direct that kind of sass to. "What happened to… how did you put it? Kicking back and relaxing? Are you telling me you're incapable of handling this?"   
  
Whatever Dante's saying on the other end is completely lost on you, but if he's calling for backup, it isn't because he's doing for shits and giggles - it's because he actually needs something from one or both of you. Annoyed as he is, Vergil knows that too. That's why his sigh is one of reluctant defeat.   
  
"I'll bring it. Stay where you are." And without waiting for a response, he hangs up.   
  
"You have to go?" Your eyes flicker down to his hand at his side. You want to grab it, if not to hold, then just to touch, but decide against it - the action feels far too much, too soon despite the fact that you're pretty sure you'd have let Vergil fuck you right there on his desk not even five minutes ago.   
  
"Yes." One of his hands comes up to cradle your face, the pad of his thumb idly grazing your lips. "Dante's meeting with some dealers to ask if any items of interest have changed hands. Summoning rituals only work when they involve items that pertain to the demon in question - he needs more information on Berith."   
  
You say nothing. There isn't anything  _ for _ you to say.   
  
"I'll try to get back as soon as I can." He leans to to press his lips to your forehead, lingering there for an extra few seconds than he really needs to. But it's his next words to you, spoken in a whisper that's an entire octave lower than his usual cadence, that makes your breath hitch in your throat - a dark promise to you that you know he'll keep one way or another. "If not, I'll see you tonight."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Vergil never did make it back before you locked up for the evening, but part of you thinks it's better this way. Whatever ends up happening - and you're not naive enough to even pretend you don't at least have an idea - it's probably better that you're both alone. But that doesn't mean the anticipation of it isn't consuming you. At least when you were stuck at the store, there were things you could do to distract you - clean up, sort mail, go wild with the 'UNPAID' stamp you bought as a joke on all of Dante's bills. But at home is where it flares up worse the longer you wait.  
  
When you finally hear a knock on your door, your heart nearly stops. It's oddly endearing that even though he could simply use the Yamato to enter your home, he chooses the conventional method instead, but that thought takes a backseat when you pull your front door open. Vergil doesn't look any worse for wear. In fact, not a hair seems to be out of place. To be fair, all they did was meet up with a few shady dealers, but even that shouldn't have taken this long.  
  
Does it matter though?  
  
"It's hard to believe Dante's capable of getting _anything_ done."  
  
Can't that wait?  
  
Reaching forward, you surprise him for the second time that day by grabbing a hold of his wrist and dragging him into your home. You only vaguely register the door closing, opting instead to focus on grabbing the lapels of his coat to pull him in for a kiss. It goes from chaste to desperate in a matter of seconds, his free hand lifting to rest on your neck, fingers fanning out to give him more leverage in angling your face, giving him better access to the taste of you on his tongue. It's almost a fight, but in a very particular way - neither of you are very willing to let the other slip away, or so much as breathe, always pulling and caressing, hands wondering, unable to keep still out of sheer anticipation, because everything… _everything_ has been building to this single moment. You know you're already wet, and you can tell he's equally as desperate in the way he rather carelessly tosses the Yamato onto your couch somewhere. That sword is everything Vergil is, embodied in one single item. It's a relic of his father, but more than that, it's elegant and refined, a weapon that requires honed discipline to use with any efficiency. And he's throwing that away, even if just for tonight, in favour of you. Now that both of his hands are free, he slips one underneath your shirt to trace the curve of your hip. You're so warm under his fingertips, so impeccably smooth, and he's now acutely aware of the fact that he's wearing too many layers - his gloves are stopping him from properly appreciating the way you feel, and his coat is just so damn unwieldy in this situation. Vergil presses into you more forcefully, leaning into the kiss a little more deeply, and then he's pulling back. His eyes are hazy, distracted, taking a moment to return to their usual clarity because he can feel your chest heaving against him, breaths coming out in shaky puffs, and he almost, _almost_ gives serious consideration to just crowding you up against the wall and pinning you there with his weight to ravish you in the way that the both of you want. But he dispels the thought by dropping his forehead to your shoulder and the hands on your hips rise, sliding up the curve of your lower back to rest at a more appropriate height, pulling you tighter against him.  
  
"Bed." It's all he needs to say to you before you start dragging him towards your room, hands once again roaming to set about removing articles of clothing as you move down the hall. His gaiters and shoes are the first thing to go with a hasty snap of the buckles that hold them in place - so hasty that you're almost certain more than a few were straight up broken in the process, but that's a problem for later on. Much later on. His coat is the next thing to hit the floor with a heavy thump, and though it isn't the first time you've seen him without his coat, it _is_ the first time you've touched them. They're lean and taut, much like the rest of him. The muscles in his arms pull tighter when you feel them skim down to your waist to slide your shorts down your legs before gravity does the rest and you kick them away. Your shirt is going over your head next, and part of you feels like you should be self conscious because you're clad in nothing but your bra and panties, but you can't bring yourself to care. Especially when it doesn't escape his notice that they're a matching set. And mostly lace.  
  
"Is that for me?" Vergil's voice comes across as strained, his head dipping to place a kiss on your bared collarbone. How fitting, when that can also be said about his cock still trapped in his pants.  
  
"Who else?" A certain coyness creeps into your tone, it's a sound that Vergil finds he enjoys hearing from you more and more - there's something enticing about the way you won't let him win without a fight.  
  
He huffs, amused, and then he's turning the both of you to sit on the edge of your bed, tugging you with him so you fall into his lap. But it's then that things grind to a complete stop, the both of you simultaneously realising that from here on, there's no turning back. It's silent, save for the sounds of your breathing and the slowing drum of your hearts. It's a rather sobering moment in comparison to how heated things were mere seconds ago, but it's a welcome change of pace, because blind passion isn't what Vergil wants for you. Not you, who gives all that he's been craving so freely. That wouldn't be fair.  
  
"This is what you want, isn't it?" Though his words are suggestive, his tone belies something a little more earnest and rational, eyes seeking your final approval before he goes too far. The idea of commitment is something he's wary of, if only out of his sheer inexperience in the field, but for you, _with you_ , he's willing to try. You just need to say yes.  
  
The heat in your body reduces to a simmer, and you settle into his lap a bit more comfortably, straddling his thighs with your own. You cup his face in your hands, and in this position, he actually has to look up to meet your eyes. Being so close, you finally see the specks of worry that colour his eyes, and as if to will them away, you brush your thumbs over his cheekbones, leaning in close enough that your lips only just hover over his.  
  
"Yes." A decisive answer like that should be enough in any other situation, but you understand that this requires a bit more delicacy than a simple one word reply. "I've been waiting for this. I guess we both have." Your hands fall from his face and slip around his neck, your face following soon after to burrow it into the recess created by your arm and his shoulder. "We took the long way around, but I have you now, and you have me. That's more than I'd ever have asked for."  
  
You can feel Vergil's chest rising as he loops his arms around your waist and breathes in, a long and slow inhale to take in not only your scent, but also to process your words. You do have him. You've had him for so long now that it would be easier to try and recall the days he _didn't_ feel this kind of longing. And that's how you both sit for at least a full minute, the contentedness of simply being held taking short precedence over everything else, because last night - the dance, the brief embraces, the overall closeness - wasn't enough.  
  
You release him when you feel him stir beneath you, shifting you so he can graze his hands up your sides to the curve of your breasts where they linger, giving them a gentle squeeze that elicits the faintest sigh from you, and fuck if the sound of your voice isn't enough to get him off. He wants to hear more, wants to feel you squirm under his hands, but his goddamn gloves-- why are they still on?  
  
"I want to feel you," he says, withdrawing his hands enough that he can start peeling them off, but you cover his hands with your own to gently take hold and do it for him.  
  
The way you slowly pull the gloves off his hands, one finger at a time, is so overwhelmingly intimate despite the fact that you're half naked and in his lap, your heated core only mere inches away from the bulge in the front of his pants. Watching you work, the way you're so tender in your actions is all that's keeping him grounded. There goes one of them, tossed somewhere into your bedroom, but instead of moving onto the next, you take an extra moment to gently run your fingers over his knuckles before you turn it over to weave your fingers in between his. You smile and press your lips to his fingers, the attention nearly enough to make Vergil's head start spinning in a way that only you ever could evoke. Hand holding, who knew such a simple gesture held so much power over him? But this - intimacy in general - is a whole new world for him. It's likely that anything you could muster up would be enough to figuratively bring him to his knees.  
  
You move on to the next glove, moving just as slowly as you did with the first, but you instead hold his hand in both of your own to cradle it against the side of your face and press a kiss to the inside of his palm. Neither of you say a word. Neither of you need to. For now, there's just slow, gentle exploration of each other's bodies as you move onward to his vest next, popping the buttons of the first layer open before going for the zipper of the second and slowly pulling it down. Vergil's hands slide down your sides while you work, savouring for the first time the smooth feel of your skin with his bare hands before they slip around your hips and cup your ass to gently kneading the flesh. The low grumble from deep within his chest that results from his adventurous hands shoots straight between your legs, making you tighten your thighs over his in an attempt to find friction. You disguise it by pulling his vest off at the same time, but Vergil is perceptive on most days, and today? His senses - sight, hearing, touch, smell. Everything - are in overdrive, leaving him hyper aware of every movement you make against him. Even now, he can smell your arousal through your panties, and the thought of it makes his mouth water. He's anticipating the moment he finally gets to taste you, but for now, he lets you continue your ministrations.  
  
With his vest out of the way, your hands return to his chest, secretly delighting in the way he almost shivers under your touch. Vergil breathes in deeply through his nose when your hands slide up his pecs, fingers dipping into the hollow of his collarbones and then over his shoulders, drawing him close enough for another heated kiss. In the same moment, his arms tighten around you, dragging you forward until you sit on top of the thick ridge in his pants where he gently guides your hips, pressing deliciously against your mound. It makes you moan into his open mouth, and you're so sure you're leaving a damp spot on the crotch of his pants, but you can't bring yourself to care or to even be embarrassed. You've wanted this for far too long, and evidently, so has he. Though Vergil hasn't been with you long - not by any stretch of the term, no matter how loosely defined - he finds that every reaction he pulls from you is his new favourite. He thought the way you melted into his hold when he first kissed you would never be topped. But then you let him swallow your quiet moan when he started maneuvering your hips against him. And _now_ you whisper his name so sweetly when he drags his lips from your mouth and down your neck to suck your skin between his teeth - the first of many marks he'll be leaving on you before he's done here today.  
  
"Lie back for me." Even the way he talks to you is gentle. As much as he'd like to fuck you unconcious right into the mattress, there will be a time for that - there'll be a time for everything he wants to do to you. But right at this moment, all Vergil wants to do is memorise every freckle that dots your skin. He wants to feel real weight in his arms, know where he needs to bite and lick and suck to make you shudder. He wants you to know the utter depth of what he feels for you, that if you simply asked him to, he'd summon the Qliphoth all over again.  
  
The fact that he knows you never would, that you'd never ask him for more than his presence, only serves to overwhelm him anew with a hollow longing he didn't think was possible.  
  
You rise up on your knees to do as he says, noting the molten quality of the flecks of grey that accentuate his eyes, giving them an almost otherworldly glow. The way they're looking at you, predatory in contrast with the tenderness of his hands, makes your core clench once over nothing in anticipation of what he intends to do, and how thoroughly he intends to do it. You lie back against your sheets at the head of your bed, feeling your heart race when Vergil follows you, hands skimming up the thighs he loves so much to hook his thumbs into the band of your panties.  
  
"Up." Is all he needs to say to you for you to understand what he wants, and so you wordlessly lift your hips up off the bed so he can slowly drag them down. He urges you to bend just one of your legs, enough that he can pull your panties free, letting them dangle uselessly from the ankle of your other. He likes that look on you, he decides. And then he's settling back between your legs, slowly kissing up the inside of your thigh. "Your legs looked perfect in that dress." Vergil seals his lips over a particular patch of your skin, so close to the apex of your thighs, and where you're aching for him to lavish with his attention, kneading it gently between his teeth before he lets go of it with a faint pop. "Good enough to eat in fact."  
  
You let your bottom lip slip from between your teeth, feeling brazen enough to not break eye contact with him. "I'll have to remember that."  
  
A hum is the only reply you get, because now that Vergil is so close to your cunt, the sheer overwhelming scent of you, so strong and heady, invades all his senses. He breaks eye contact with you to look down at what he's doing, admiring the way your folds glisten in the light - you're dripping for him already, absolutely sopping - and he can't help but sigh, huffing a warm breath over your exposed core, and then he's leaning in to give you one slow lick up the length of your slit. The moment the taste of you hits his tongue, Vergil actually does groan against you, the tightness in his pants is nearly devastating at this point. It isn't a sweet taste in the conventional sense, but it's addictive in its own right, all the more that it leaks from your most intimate place. The tip of his tongue teases at your entrance, forcing your head back into your pillows. Your breaths come out in short puffs and you have to fight the urge to squeeze your thighs around his head. But his tongue never fully enters you, always just tracing light circles, the stimulation only making more of your slick drip from you which Vergil laps up greedily as if he can't get enough - as if he'll _never_ get enough - not caring in the slightest that he's getting it all over his lips and chin. He presses his face deeper between your legs, using the tip of his tongue to gently tease the hood of your clit, rolling it back so that he can seal his lips over the swollen bud to draw what he can of it into his mouth. Above him, you're dangerously close to an orgasm already, fuelled purely by virtue of the fact that this has been so long coming, and Vergil is fully aware of this, feeling your thighs begin to quiver in his hands, just as you did in his dream. Strange how he was able to predict that outcome from you.  
  
There's a rather mischievous glint in his eyes, not that you can see it with your head pressed into the pillows, but Vergil pulls off your clit with a wet pop, his tongue swiping over his upper lip to gather as much of your essence into his mouth as he can as if afraid he'd forget the taste of you if he went even a minute without it. "Show me where you want me to be," he whispers darkly, and you know he's saying it to be coy, to have you shamelessly lose yourself completely in him. In fact, you find it in yourself to tell him exactly this.  
  
"You know, part of me thinks you already know."  
  
Vergil's hands skim the skin on your legs, canting his head slightly to one side to press his lips into your thigh in mock thought. That sly spark in his eyes is still ever present. "Could it not be both?"  
  
Playfully, you roll your eyes, "Your brother is rubbing off on you. I'm not sure I--" Your sentence is cut off however when Vergil, clearly not in the right mood or mindset to be speaking of his brother, returns his attention to your cunt. His tongue pushes past your folds, delving straight into your canal. You're pretty sure his face is all but covered in your slick now, for how far he's trying to shove his tongue into you, and you try to aid him as best you can, digging your heels into your mattress to try to lift your hips towards his eager mouth. But it isn't to last. With one final probe of your inner walls, Vergil pulls back, giving your slit meagre kitten licks before he retracts it entirely.  
  
" _Vergil_ ," You do your best to sound intimidating. Really, you do, and he has to give you credit for it. But any viable threat is negated when you're bucking your hips into his face, and your voice is almost coming out as a wheeze because you're so desperate to cum on his face.  
  
"Show me." There is liquid fire dancing in his eyes, catching the light in such a way that they seem to glow.  
  
You make a strained noise, and it's almost shy, the way you slowly reach down to curl your fingers into his hair, guiding his mouth back over to your clit. You feel him smile against you, placing a kiss that's far too gentle for your liking just over the very tip of it, his tongue working it round and round before he draws it back into his mouth again. Probing fingers find their way to the entrance of your cunt, pressing gently, trying to get a feel for how far you've opened up for him. It isn't anything he needs to worry about, he soon finds - his finger slips right in with ease, making you suck a breath in through your teeth and buck your hips into his face. It's a reaction that's unfortunately lost on Vergil, who's relishing in the way you feel around his finger, tight enough that he's met with mild resistance when he tries to pull out, but oh so silky smooth as he slides back into your welcoming heat. Your fingers are twitching in his hair, and the heels of your feet dig into his back, harking back memories of his dream of you, and the way the very tip of the heel of your shoes pressed so desperately into his back. It makes him groan with his mouth still sealed over your clit, and the feedback is immediate - the vibrations rattle straight through you and make you clench once more around his finger.  
  
It isn't enough, he decides, and with a vaguely circular motion, he stretches you far enough that he can slip a second into your greedy cunt. Vergil can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, feels the way you convulse around his fingers so sweetly, a wordless demand that he doesn't stop what he's doing, and then you're cumming hard with his mouth still on you. The sound of your voice pitching, moaning his name almost brokenly, the feel of your thighs - god, your fucking thighs - clamping down around his head, and the rhythmic pulsing of your inner walls bearing down around his fingers has him nearly cumming in his pants in spite of the fact he'd already ejaculated once just this morning.  
  
But that wasn't _you_ though. It wasn't real. Didn't have any tangible weight or meaning behind it - he couldn't even taste you. Here, _now_ , he can, and the sheer overwhelming flavour of you, the sight and smell and _feel_ of you has him just about ready to burst. You'd probably only need to touch him, to wrap your fingers around his length and apply just the slightest bit of pressure, and he'd come undone just like that. And lord does he want that. He wants to watch his cum slowly roll down your body after he's finished painting your skin with it. He wants to have you bent over every flat surface in the house. He wants to watch you ride his cock. He wants to work his way up to fucking your mouth. He wants to make you cum again with just his mouth and fingers. And then with just his mouth. And then with just his fingers. And then maybe he'll try with just his _voice_ , whispering all the things he'd do to you.  
  
He files all of those ideas away. There will be time.  
  
Pulling his fingers from within you and distantly amused at the way your walls still eagerly grip them, Vergil gives you one long final lick with the flat of his tongue, brow furrowed as he tries to commit your taste to memory, and then he's pulling off you. Your legs feel like a liquid - heavy, difficult to control, and almost numb - and so it's no surprise that Vergil breaks free from your crossed ankles over his back with relative ease. He rises to his knees, eyes finally falling on your face again to find that you're breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes staring rather blankly up at your ceiling, and within him, he feels a sense of pride.  
  
He did that to you.  
  
"I take it you enjoyed yourself." He lifts his fingers to his mouth, ensuring eye contact as he licks them clean, making you shift atop the bed, embarrassed. Strange that you feel that way when he's just finished going down on you and is greedily lapping the remains of you off his hand. "Unfortunately, I'm not finished with you."  
  
When Vergil leans forward to kiss you, you meet him halfway, rising up on your elbows to entwine your tongue with his. You've tasted yourself before, but not off someone else's tongue, and certainly not off Vergil's. It's new, especially when you're still getting used to how he tastes naturally, but it's not unpleasant. Your legs wrap back around his waist when he pulls back and then down, skimming your jawline with his lips and down your throat, his teeth catching on your skin every so often as he goes, sometimes biting hard, and other times merely suckling to paint your skin with patches of varying shades of red.  
  
"Vergil.." It takes him a moment to realise you're trying to get his attention as opposed to just whimpering his name, and though his mouth doesn't stop what it's doing, though he continues to mark you with his teeth, tongue always laving across your skin afterwards as if in apology, Vergil gives you an acknowledging hum, urging you to continue your thought.  
  
"I love you."  
  
The first thing you notice is that he goes completely still, and then his tongue is leaving your skin. He doesn't move much after that, keeping his face buried in the curve at the base of your neck, but his hands wind themselves around you, not quite pulling you close to him, but just so he has you in his arms. There's a particular way the muscles in his shoulders relax as he releases a short breath, but other than that, he's utterly silent. For some reason, it makes your heart race, not out of joy, but anxiety, and you shift under him again to try to look at his face. To peer into the eyes that betray the steel he pretends to be made of. As if anticipating this, Vergil simply presses further into your neck, and you feel the faint tickle of his eyelashes on your skin as his eyes close.  
  
"Say it again." His tone is so unsure that it sounds more like a question rather than a request, and there, still propped up on your elbows, the tension in your body dissipates, head dipping to press your lips into his hair.  
  
" _I love you_."  
  
His mouth is on yours again before you realise it, lips moving so urgently, so desperately against yours that you may as well be breathing the same air for how much reprieve he's giving you. His hands seem like they're everywhere at once, never really able to decide just where they want to stay, always grasping and kneading at what flesh he can reach, smoothing his palms over the curves of your body so that he can memorise the feel of you, so soft and pliant under his touch. They're so insistent, that you actually feel chills when they finally lift from your heated skin, making you whine into Vergil's open mouth, but when you hear the familiar sound of a belt buckle, and the impatient rasp of rustling fabric, you can't help the moan that immediately follows. Vergil lifts his head away to look down at what he's doing, guiding his cock between your legs until you feel something blunt prodding at your folds, something soft but also hot and firm, pressing teasingly at your entrance. It barely dips inside, just enough to coat the head of his cock in your slick before he withdraws it to grind the length of it against you, the underside only ever barely grazing your clit.  
  
You're whimpering under him, wanting so bad for him to enter you, and you do your best to communicate this to him, trying to meet his slow grinding with your own thrusts upwards, but Vergil stops you, shifting above you so that his forehead rests flush against yours. His eyes are boring into your own, so focused and determined despite his cock gliding up your slit, that the only thing you _can_ do is stare back up at him, entranced. Your hands find their way around his neck, the backs of your fingers grazing the hair at his nape, trying to pull him closer. He obliges, if only to press a gentle kiss to your lips, and then he's pushing into you. The pace of it is agonisingly slow as you feel him stretch you in an entirely different way than his fingers did, and every now and then, for just a second, he falters to release a shuddery breath.  
  
"Tight…" he rasps, eyes never leaving your face, watching your every reaction - the way you mewl, the way you draw your lower lip between your teeth, the way your eyes flutter closed the deeper he slides into you. "So wet."  
  
Vergil pushes all the way to the hilt in that one swoop, and god you've never felt so warm, so perfectly stretched, so _full_ before. Something like a choked sob escapes you, falling somewhere between pleasure and genuine happiness, because who'd have thought this would be where you'd end up? So hopelessly in love with a man who could have _anything_ in the world if he set his mind to it? To have that same man choose _you_. Your vision begins to shimmer, and you know there are tears pricking at your eyes now. But what's more, you know that at this proximity that Vergil can see them.  
  
He lifts off you a little, rising onto his elbows, but he doesn't pull out. Doesn't want to disturb you just in case. "Am I hurti--"  
  
"No," you reassure him with a firmer hold around his neck. "I'm just.. happy that I'm here with you." Not physically here, but together, but you leave Vergil to read between the lines - he's always been good at that. And again, just like when you stated your feelings for him out of the blue, Vergil doesn't quite know how to respond. No, it isn't quite that - it's more that he doesn't really know how to handle that kind of utter sincerity. The drawn out silence between the two of you, the near stupefied expression on Vergil's face nearly makes you laugh, but you cover it up with a sniffle instead. "Sorry, I guess that isn't really appropriate for what we're in the middle of."  
  
"It's alright," he leans down to press a kiss to your lips. "The spontaneity of it is so much like you - I wouldn't have it any other way. Can I continue?"  
  
That actually does make you laugh, and even with Vergil completely bottomed out inside you, the banter still flows just as easily. "Please… _please_." The second repetition comes out a little more strained, a little more desperate, and it's all the encouragement that he needs to hear from you.  
  
The first thrust is deliberately slow, his cock dragging far too leisurely against your walls that it makes you wrap your legs around him tighter to urge him onwards, but the elder Sparda twin isn't swayed so easily. He'd certainly like nothing more than to thrust with wild abandon, to bury himself deep inside you and feel you milk every last drop of his seed from him, but as he always is with you, he's selfish and greedy, never able to get enough, and always wanting more. He wants this moment to last, he wants to stay inside your tight, wet heat, listening to the noises you make until he genuinely can't stand it anymore. To that end, you can feel a puff of hot air against your throat, where Vergil's face now rests - the little nook very quickly becoming one of his favourite places to nestle - as he tries to compose himself. To keep his pace steady. To listen for every sigh, every moan, every breathless whisper of his name that he forces out of you.  
  
When he pushes back in, the journey is so smooth, your cunt so velvety, and so unrelentingly _hot_ that he groans your name into your skin, his teeth following soon after to dig crescent welts into the flesh of your throat. He establishes a rhythm, still far too gentle, and far too slow, so you do your best to meet his thrusts halfway, your hips meeting his at just the right angle to caress your clit and shoot sparks to the very ends of each of your limbs, making you leak more of your slick over his length. Even though his pace is lacking, you can distantly hear the creak of your bed frame and the wet squelch of his cock as he continues to drive it into you - what he lacks in speed, at least for the moment, Vergil makes up for with thoroughness. Every thrust is almost meticulous in its nature. He always pulls out almost entirely, leaving only his cockhead buried inside you, and makes sure to wedge himself in as far as you'll take him on each downward stroke, bottoming out in you with enough force that it knocks the air out of your lungs.  
  
You can feel your walls fluttering around him, can feel that very particular weightless sensation coming - an indication of your imminent orgasm, and with a broken, sobbed moan and a scrabbling of your nails at the skin of his back, you manage to choke out a jumbled string of words.  
  
"I'm close I'm close _VergilI'msoclose_."  
  
That's yet another scrap, another leftover from his dream that's somehow become reality, and you feel him shudder against you. He loves that you're strong in both mind and body, but he can't deny that he loves it even more that you're weak for him, that he can reduce you to a babbling mess even at the painstaking rhythm he's fucking you at, and god he feels so _warm_. Not just because you're pressed so snug against him, or because he's buried to the hilt in your pussy - it goes beyond the physical sense, blooming from somewhere deep in his chest.  
  
He moves faster now, his hands lowering to your hips to lift them, angling them in just the right way that he can press deeper, harder, faster into you. God, how is it even possible that you're squeezing him even tighter than before, bearing down on him in a way even his lust-addled mind couldn't dream up? Between his own sharp gasps and harsh breaths, he murmurs your name, stammers out a sentence he tries so hard to finish, but the words simply won't form and so die off in his throat.  
  
"I-- you--"  
  
 _I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you._  
  
You pull your arms from around him to caress his face, lifting it up towards yours, and though you don't need to look into his eyes to understand what he's saying, you do anyway, because any less than that would be an insult to the message he so badly wants to convey to you.   
  
"I know."  
  
His lips are on yours again with enough eagerness behind the motion that your teeth nearly crash. You think it's your imagination, or some byproduct of the pleasure that's coursing through you, but Vergil's tongue somehow tastes a bit sweeter than before. It isn't a thought that lasts long though, because you can feel a pressure bearing down on your clit that brutally takes charge. One of his hands has slid from its grasp on your ass to your front, where his thumb presses down hard, rubbing in tight circles, making your hips buck almost involuntarily up towards him, driving his cock ever further into your core.  
  
The bed is undeniably creaking now, but it's a wonder that you can hear it over the lewd slap of skin on skin, or the sound of your own moans beginning to pitch. Your body feels like its suspended in zero gravity, weightless, balancing on a precipice for two, three, four, five seconds, and then your orgasm crashes into you. Your voice is hoarse at this point, throat dry from all gasps that Vergil's thrusts are forcing from you, but that isn't stopping you from repeating his name to match the rhythm that your cunt flutters and clamps down on his cock, so agonizingly sweet. You only barely notice it, but his hands stutter against you, his fingers are pressing deep divots into your flesh, and he's trying so hard to commit the feel of you to memory. How the sound of your voice alone could have been enough to drive him over the edge. How your cunt is stretched around him and convulsing so _perfectly_ as if it's _begging_ to be flooded with his cum. But then you just have to go and moan his name again, tell him you love him again, and then he reaches his limit too with a breathless gasp, mindlessly reaching for any purchase on your body he can find to wrench your hips towards him. Vergil forces himself as deeply into you as he can manage, filling you to the brim with pulse after pulse _after pulse_ of cum. It shouldn't be this obscene of an amount, especially not after this morning, and yet even with his cock still firmly plugged in place, it leaks out in thick rivulets around his length anyway - almost unbearably warm on your skin - mixing with your own fluids to dribble onto your bedsheets.  
  
When your senses return to you, you can still feel him twitching inside your heat, can still feel how you're gripping him tight, milking him for everything he's got. Your entire body is buzzing with warmth, and you only realise your skin is damp with sweat when Vergil lets go of your hips, leans back forward, his body almost covering yours, and pulls you to him. It isn't a desperate scrabble amidst the throes of passion like before, but one that's measured and comfortable, and above all else, so incredibly at ease. It's a side to him you haven't really seen before, one that he doesn't show often. One that he's reserved for you. He nuzzles back into the crook of your neck, licks at your salty skin and breathes out all of his tension.  
  
He still has a long way to go towards righting his wrongs and being able to properly embrace and nurture his humanity, but for this brief moment with you, he's at peace. He's happy.  
  
The gentle thrum of your heartbeat tells him he deserves to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the longest chapter for anything I've ever written, jesus christ lmfsosdj


	8. Crush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya everyone, hope y'all are having good days!! This chapter here is a little bit special in that it's a prompt request from a commenter who goes by Julie. They don't have an account here on AO3, so I can't tag them, but this one's for you!!!
> 
> The request was for Vergil to stumble upon the reader in the midst of making pancakes, singing along to Crush by Tessa Violet. There was a little more to the prompt than just that, but that's the main gist of it. 👀
> 
> This is admittedly my first time filling a request like this, but I hope it's to your liking, Julie! ;A;

If a stranger were to meet the Sparda twins, the natural assumption they would arrive at is that Dante is the whimsical one, and Vergil, the uptight. That's always how it's worked, hasn't it? Among siblings, one tends to be energetic, where the other is down to earth. With a wry smile and a soft laugh, they might even tell you that that's how the world creates and maintains balance.  
  
But life can never be defined in such definitive black and white terms. Life is composed of layers and nuance, circumstance and subtlety - greys that encompass an entire spectrum of perception. Dante might nap during the day, coming across as lazy to most who see him, but he naps because he's the early riser between he and his brother which in itself is already a contradiction to the assumptions that often get made about them. It's Vergil that has the tendency to sleep in, which, according to Dante, he can't really be blamed for. They haven't been back from the Underworld for long, and again, according to Dante, his brother has 'been away' for a very long time, and catching up on his 'beauty sleep' is just something he needs to get out of his system. You think there's more to it than that, but you can't say you're particularly well versed in demon biology, much less that of demon/human hybrids. But honestly? If Dante isn't worried, then neither are you.  
  
Of course some would argue that Dante is rarely worried about anything, but life, nuance, subtlety, a spectrum of greys… all that stuff. Trusting in him has never steered you wrong before, and until it does - _if_ it ever does - you're content to continue as you are.  
  
Even if that means standing in the modest kitchenette of Devil May Cry, measuring out the ingredients for pancakes. The three of you returned from a job rather late last night, and Dante had simply decided it was easier for you to stay the night to save you the trip back to the office in the morning.  
  
_"No use going home for 4 hours and coming back. May as well cut out the middleman and stay here."_  
  
Nobody could argue that logic, and so you did your best to make the couch comfortable. Rolling up your jacket to shove under your head helped, and you managed to drift off just fine eventually, but it was waking up to your head nestled into a _real_ pillow, with an _actual_ blanket over you that put you where are now. You don't know which twin took pity on you, but it's the small gestures that count, and you've never been one to let a good deed go unrewarded, so an impromptu breakfast is what you settled on as your way of saying thanks.  
  
Which is why Dante is now standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and watching you work. His signature coat is missing and he isn't wearing his gloves, but the store isn't technically open for business yet anyway.  
  
"We offered you the couch for the night, I dunno if that really warrants an all out breakfast." Idly rubbing at his beard, Dante realises he's probably pushing his luck here, but at least when he does it with you, the chances of him getting maimed for it are virtually slim to none. Not to say they don't exist, he just prefers to take his chances with you.  
  
"Maybe." Your response is equally as casual, not really paying him any mind as you dump the flour from the measuring cup and into a bowl. "But at least this kitchen is being used - you know I found _dust_ in some of these bowls, right?"  
  
"Dust?" Dante makes a face as if he doesn't believe you. How would dust even settle inside the bowls when they're in the cupboards? Isn't that what they're in there for in the first place? "You sure that's what it was?"  
  
With the flour all measured out, you move on to the sugar next. "Dunno. But I left it on your desk if you wanted to make sure."  
  
Ah, so that's what that ball of fluff was.  
  
….. it _was_ pretty big…   
  
"And why is it on my desk again?" He finally enters the kitchen now, nudging you out of the way with his hip as he heads towards the fridge and actively sabotaging your measurements. You frown at him over your shoulder and dump the sugar back into the bag to start over.  
  
"I'm making a statement."  
  
"Okay." Tugging the fridge open, he bends over to survey his options of which… there aren't many. There's a jar of mustard, a couple of beers, leftover pizza and-- ooh. Milk. That'll do. "And what's this statement about? That I don't clean this place as much as I should, or that I don't use this kitchen as much as you'd like?"  
  
"Both?" You set the sugar aside with the flour after you're done measuring it out, turning towards Dante to blast him about how blowing money on renovating the kitchen means nothing if he doesn't even use it. But when you see him with the milk carton in his hands, you shoot for that instead, charging towards him to cover the top of the carton with your hand before he can lift it to his mouth. "Heyheyhey don't drink that, I need it! Drink a beer!"  
  
The face that Dante makes at you is one of exaggerated annoyance, evidenced by the fact he just lets you take the carton from his hands to give it a shake to verify its contents. "It's ten in the morning. You give me shit for eating pizza past eight at night."  
  
"Well I need the milk, and I can't put the beer in a pancake--"  
  
"Which is a coward's way to live, if you ask me."  
  
The look _you_ shoot at Dante is similarly exaggerated, but such is the game you often end up playing with him. Such is the game _anybody_ who has to talk to Dante ends up playing with him. "Can you just go make yourself useful, please? Go buy some strawberries."  
  
And of course, the key to winning said game is to play to Dante's weaknesses, because the mere notion of his favourite fruit - sort of a misnomer when that's the _only_ fruit he eats - he perks right up. "You paying? I haven't got cash until the money from the client clears."  
  
"Shocking." You dust off your hands on a teatowel before making your way out of the kitchen and toward the pants you were wearing last night, slung rather carelessly over the armrest of your makeshift bed. It takes some digging around, but you manage to excavate a ten dollar note from one of the pockets, and unfurling it, you spin on your heel, holding it in between your fingertips. You're expecting Dante to be right behind you, but you're surprised to see him still standing at the entrance to the kitchen, head tilted curiously at you and making you snap out a rather curt sounding, "What?"  
  
"Where the hell did you even find that?"  
  
"What?" Your intonation shifts an entire octave to denote your genuine confusion.  
  
" _That_ ." Dante gestures with a widening of his eyes at your choice of attire - a dress shirt that you definitely weren't wearing the night before when he bid you beddy bye (his words).  
  
"Oh." You look down at it, tugging at the hem to ensure it stays pulled well past your ass. See, you're not exactly uh… wearing shorts underneath it. "It was already on the couch last night, and I needed something to sleep in. Why? Is it yours?"  
  
For whatever reason, he doesn't answer you immediately, and when he finally does, it's with a noncommittal shrug as he steps over to you to procure your generous donation of ten whole dollars. You don't know it (yet), but _all_ of it is going towards strawberries, and he is fully prepared to accept the consequences of his actions on that one. "Doesn't matter. I'll be back soon."  
  
"Sure thing."  
  


* * *

  
  
When Vergil sluggishly opens his eyes, it's to the sound of a pulse, rhythmic and steady, coming from somewhere outside, and purely out of instinct - some part of him still shackled to a cold suit of armour, dictated by the maddening thrum of the heart of the Underworld - he jerks awake and inhales a sharp breath of air. But as the pounding of his pulse in his ears begins to subside, he comes to recognise the dingy ceiling of his room at Devil May Cry, and eventually, his erratic heart rate settles. He doesn't need to look at the clock to know he's slept far too long for his liking, he just needs to look at the floor, at how far across the room the sunlight peeks through his curtains. On a good day, an ideal day, he's up before the beam of light has even left his bed, but this morning though, it's just shy of touching his bedroom door, and thus he's running late. Very late. Vergil sighs. Dante said that reacclimating to the human world's flow of time and space, and his perception of it would take some time, but he never mentioned how backwards the process would sometimes feel. At what point exactly does progress start to _feel_ like progress?  
  
No sense thinking about it. He's awake now, and he has work to do. Throwing his covers back, he rises to his feet, stretching the torpid feeling from his back, his limbs. Everywhere. It's then that he realises that pulsing he'd heard when he first awoke is still going, and as the gears of his mind begin to spin, as his usual levels of awareness return to him, he finds that what he's hearing isn't a pulse at all, at least not in the way he'd originally thought. No, it's the beat of a synthetic drum.  
  
Music.  
  
And not the kind that Dante normally listens to.  
  
The song is immediately louder when he opens his door and starts down the hall, enough that Vergil can make out the melody now - light, upbeat, and with what he can only assume people mean when they say something has 'bounce'. But that isn't all he hears. Layered over the voice of the artist is you.  
  
"...and I'm not tryna be with you now, you now, mhmm~"  
  
It's curious, the way he continues towards the sound to hover by the kitchen and watch you in silence. He's no stranger to a carefree attitude - he lives with one, after all - but you're a different shade to Dante. A little softer, and less… chaotic. Less brazen. It's a hue he vastly prefers over that of his brother's. Of course, the fact that you don't actively seek to belittle or deceive him plays an incredibly large part in that, but the core sentiment remains the same.  
  
You're oblivious to his presence in the doorway, but that's ultimately a good thing. The longer Vergil stands there, the more he feels like he actually _shouldn't_ disturb the scene unfolding before him. It somehow feels as though if he does, it'll all fade away like some sort of dream.  
  
With a spatula in hand, you tap the handle against the countertop in time with the beat of the song. There isn't much else for you to do while you wait for the pancakes to brown on one side. "You make it difficult to not overthink~" An enthusiastic tap. "And when I'm with you I turn all shades of pink. I want to touch you but don't want to be weird. It's such a rush, I'm thinkin' 'wish you were here'~"  
  
You let the verse continue on without you as you flip the pancakes in the pan, but you're still swaying to the rhythm, still bobbing your head, still, in Vergil's eyes on this quiet morning, probably the most pure thing he's seen since he and Dante tumbled through a portal and onto Devil May Cry's floor nearly three months ago.  
  
Still humming, you start rifling through cupboards to find plates, finding it both endearing and vaguely annoying when you manage to unearth what you need, albeit in three completely different sizes. Is that worth complaining to Dante about when he gets back? Oh, absolutely. You set them onto the counter by the stove and return to your vigilant watch just in time for the chorus to start up again, gesturing with both your hands as you lean slightly over the pan.  
  
"But I could be your crush like, throw you for a rush like, hoping you'd text me so I could tell you I've been thinkin' about your touch like, touch, touch, touch, touch, touch. I could be your crush, crush, crush, crush, crush~"  
  
It's the sleep, Vergil tries to justify to himself, the unusual cycle of sleep that's been plaguing him for weeks. That's why he's standing there, staring so dumbly, watching your hips sway to the beat and wearing a shirt that's _so_ familiar because it's _his_ . He absolutely isn't thinking about how it hangs low enough to be modest, but still enough for his eyes to wander down your legs, and _definitely_ not about how, when the sunlight hits you just right, it outlines the silhouette of your body through the material, and--  
  
He should probably look away.  
  
You're fishing around in one of the drawers for cutlery now. There are only two sets, but that's fair considering only two people live here. It just means that someone (Dante) is just going to have to deal with using a spoon. Assuming he ever gets back.  
  
"Geez," you murmur to yourself as you start to turn on your heel to glance up at the clock on the wall, "how long does it take to--"  
  
You never get to finish your sentence, because all the blood is draining from your face when you see Vergil standing at the entrance of the kitchen. Your mouth simply hangs open to let out a continuous high-pitched whine, shrill and no doubt grating for this early in the morning, but you can't bring yourself to speak, expression absolutely mortified because jesus _fucking_ christ, you've been parading around and _singing_ and he's been standing there for god knows how long and this is probably what it feels like to have your soul leave your body.  
  
"Vergil, listen, I--"  
  
He holds up a hand to stop you, and then points at the pan behind you, specifically the smoke rising from it. The noise you make as you lunge for the pan is borderline inhuman, and in spite of himself, Vergil finds himself smiling. He steps into the kitchen fully to stand (a respectable distance) beside you as you scrape your morning's work from the pan and dump it into the bin.  
  
"Shit… and here I thought I could finish before Dante makes it back from the store. Thought I

 was making some real progress."  
  
Progress…  
  
Vergil cants his head, and then he's gently taking the pan from you to place it back onto the stove. "You know," he begins, waiting for you bashfully turn your gaze to him. It takes a bit - he's already scooped another two ladles of the pancake batter back onto the pan by the time you do. "Progress isn't linear."  
  
You wait for Vergil to elaborate on that thought, but all you get out of him is a slight upturning of the corners of his mouth - the first smile you've ever seen on him. The confusion on your face melts away for awe.  
  
At least for today, he's glad his inconsistent sleep pattern woke up him at the exact time it did. Maybe he'll make better progress tomorrow. For now though, he gets to enjoy this quiet moment with you.  
  
...  
  
"By the way, that's my shirt."  
  
"......I'm _so_ sorry." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all so much for taking the time out of your days to leave kudos and comments. I know I say this every chapter, but I really am blown away by all this. Y'all are too nice to me.. angrycry.jpeg


	9. Spontaneity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?!??! A Medley update amongst the slew of filthy porn I've been writing for Devil's Pact?!??!?!?! I haven't actually forgotten about this lil' collection, and I still have so many more prompts I want to write for this, it's just that I'm on a tiiiiiiny bit of a roll with Pact at the moment. But that being said...
> 
> I've been writing so much Horny Vergil as of late that I miss my one true love: Soft Vergil.... This is partly Muzz's fault. 👀 She got me pining for the somft lad with her [lil' series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491467) that y'all should check out wink wonk. Anyways heck, this is a prompt I've had floating around in a gdoc for a bit that I've finally refined a little (or enough) to put out into the world. So here we go!! I hope you like it, everynyan!! ❤️❤️

Vergil is many things. He's handsome (of course), intelligent (mostly), and extremely thorough in everything he sets out to do, carrying out even the most mundane of tasks with the sort of exhaustive attention to detail he applies to polishing Yamato. And so, in this fashion, he is also predictable. Extremely so, and with a very particular daily routine he follows down to a tee.  
  
Every morning after he awakens, he will brush his teeth for exactly three minutes, never more, and never less. When he dresses, he buttons his vest up from top to bottom (and yet buckles his gaiters from bottom to top), and for whatever reason, likes to put his gloves on before his coat. Then for breakfast, assuming the ingredients are available, he prefers a simple fried egg (over-medium) on a piece of toast (buttered, with _real_ butter, he doesn't believe in the fake stuff), which he'll quietly munch on as he pores over the newspaper that's actually three days old that Dante swiped from the pizza place down the road. He doesn't bother with a knife and fork as he eats, hence why he prefers his egg over-medium, though it should be noted he can, will, and _does_ eat pizza with cutlery, much to Dante's physical, soul crushing pain ("Can you _PLEASE for the love of GOD_ eat it like a normal human being?!" "...even though I am no such thing?"). And despite his previous occasional hiccup with the coffee machine as he was still adjusting the flow of time in the human world, Vergil has now mastered the simple machine and is capable of literally obtaining a cup with his eyes closed.   
  
And so for these reasons, and many more, you've thus come to the firm conclusion that the word 'spontaneity' simply doesn't exist in Vergil's otherwise extensive dictionary. Although the word 'eccentric' is very likely to be circled _and_ underlined. In bright red marker. And then highlighted. Because really Vergil? A knife and fork for pizza?   
  
But you love him anyway. As much, and as thoroughly as anybody could love someone else. You just wish he'd act a little impulsively sometimes. Maybe not to Dante's level of course, but variety is the spice of life!!   
  
"You think I'm predictable?" He adjusts the grip he has on the newspaper in his hands, letting it fall loose enough that the top half flops down to reveal his eyes to you. He isn't giving you a malicious look - it's more curious than anything - but you shift uncomfortably as you perch on the corner of his desk anyway, suddenly finding the mug of coffee in your lap extremely interesting. "In what way?"   
  
"You know…" you deliberately let your sentence hang, hoping that he'll take the hint and let you drop the subject, but behind you, you can hear the rustle of the newspaper as he rolls it tightly, and in the next second, you feel the tip of his improvised weapon prodding into your side.   
  
"In what way?" He asks again, a little more firmly.   
  
With your mug of coffee in one hand, you absently grab the end of the rolled up newspaper and tug it from his fingers with your other. It's rather odd that he lets you - he doesn't usually give in so easily. "In the I-could-tell-you-at-exactly-what-time-you'll-be-buttering-your-toast' sort of way? You run like clockwork."   
  
"Some would call that routine," comes his gentle chiding, "not predictability."   
  
"Well whatever you want to call it then." You spin yourself around on his desk, the new position forcing you to bring one of your legs up to lay it flat against the cool surface. It's only for a half a second, something easily missed if you so much as blinked, but you catch Vergil's eyes flit down to it before they immediately dart back up. Even _that_ is predictable. "Don't you ever want to be impulsive? You know, do something out of the blue?"   
  
"Not particularly. Impulse leads to rash behaviour, which leads to unforeseen outcomes, which leads to danger. On a job, that could mean life or death." He states matter-of-factly, but the both of you know he's being deliberately obtuse. Deliberately missing the point. "Now may I have that back?" Vergil gestures down at the newspaper you still have in your hand.   
  
"Okay, you have a point, except I mean in daily life and you know it," you say as you tilt the wad of paper towards him.   
  
Vergil hums in acknowledgment but otherwise says nothing, staring down at his prized reading material as he mulls it over. With a tired, protesting creak of his chair under him, he leans forward to try to pluck his newspaper from your grasp - even if it is three days old, everything in it is news to him. "Is this really about my spontaneity, or is it that you feel I don't surprise you enough?"   
  
Ah.   
  
You try not to let him see that he's hit the nail right on the head with that one, but Vergil is ever vigilant, even here in the office where he should arguably be the most relaxed. It also doesn't really help that you  tug the newspaper away from him at the very last second to swat at it. "Not at all."   
  
Vergil just smiles knowingly.  
  


* * *

  
  
Three days later, you find yourself cooped up in Devil May Cry's kitchenette, stirring one of three pots upon the stove - all of completely different sizes, shapes and colours. It still greatly bothers you that the twins haven't bothered upgrading their kitchenware to _at least_ have _one_ complete set of something that matches, but Dante can't say he really understands your issue with it. Everything does what they're supposed to, and none of them are broken - isn't that good enough? He seems to think so, and to your surprise, Vergil is in agreement. For once.   
  
Dipping the wooden spoon in your hand into the nearest pot, you scoop up a small amount of its contents and blow on it before giving it a taste. Though relatively simple to make, you've never actually made strawberry jam yourself before. The only reason you're here doing this today is… well, if you're ever called to the office out of the blue on your day off, it's generally because Dante's done something. Once it was because he mixed the bedsheets with the coloured clothes, and ended up with a spotty, multicoloured disaster. Another time it was because he refused payment from a client (again), was somehow instead paid in cereal samples, and insisted you come try some with him because "food always tastes better with company and Verge doesn't like fun"... you're pretty sure that phone call ended with him getting stabbed.   
  
However, today's joke of a sitcom plot is that Dante thought it would be a good idea to use his big fat paycheck to buy strawberries.   
  
In bulk.   
  
Which he grew tired of eating after two days.   
  
Leaving another entire crate of them that he just has no damn idea what to do with anymore.   
  
So… not really a good idea. Far from it, in your humble opinion, yet here you are, standing in the kitchen making your third (or is it fourth?) batch of strawberry jam for the day. You genuinely think if you wait one hundred years before you eat, or even _look_ at another strawberry, it'll still be too soon - no wonder Dante got sick of them.   
  
You chew thoughtfully on a chunk of the fruit in your mouth, trying to ascertain whether you've added enough lemon juice. To you, all of this has been tasting the same since your first batch as your tastebuds have acclimated to the general flavour of _strawberry_ . Everything just tastes like strawberries. Is the jam too sour? Too sweet? Who knows!! With a frustrated sigh, you drop the wooden spoon back into the pot in front of you. And that's when Vergil walks in.   
  
You've long since forgotten about your exchange with him from three days ago when he so effortlessly unravelled your little talk about spontaneity, but admittedly, it's been nagging at him. Although not so much nagging as him wondering if you actually had a point.   
  
"Vergil!" You call, stepping away from the stove to tug lightly at his arm, dragging him over to what may as well be Your Spot for the day. "Can you taste this for me? Every single one of my senses has been overridden with strawberries. All I can taste is strawberries, and all I can see is strawberries, and when I go to sleep tonight, there'll probably be a strawberry hiding underneath my bed waiting to ambush me."   
  
Vergil opens his mouth to tell you that no, that's unlikely, but he can see you're frazzled, clearly at the end of some sort of strawberry coloured and scented rope, so he has the good grace to remain quiet. "What flavour are you looking for?"   
  
Silence hangs in the air for several seconds as you give him a rather puzzled look. "Strawberry jam flavour?"   
  
"...of course." Perhaps he had that one coming.   
  
Releasing his arm, you scoop a little of the jam back into the wooden spoon, blowing on it again for good measure before you hold it out for him to try. You expect him to take the spoon from you rather than actually let you feed him, or maybe grab a new spoon from the cutlery drawer to do it himself, and so you do your best to not let your disappointment show when he raises a hand toward your outstretched arm.   
  
Except he does neither of your presumed outcomes.   
  
He ignores the spoon you've offered him entirely, gently gripping your forearm and pulling it aside to loop his other hand around your waist as he tugs you closer   
  
"Hey what're you--" The words leave your mouth purely on instinct - in the back of your mind, you already know what he's planning on doing, but it isn't until he seals his lips over yours, until he plunges his tongue into your mouth, probing and already entwining with yours does it _actually_ register. It's far from your first kiss, and yet it's somehow thrilling, the way his tongue, so smooth and somehow _cool_ , searches your mouth. To the point where you inadvertently find yourself moaning into the kiss, swept up in the abruptness of it.   
  
When he pulls away, your eyes are a shade darker than they usually are, or so Vergil notices with a self satisfied smile on his face. Yes, the patented, iconic and infamous Sparda Shit Eating Grin.   
  
"I uhh…" You gulp, swallowing down the lingering taste of him in your mouth.   
  
"It's adequate," Vergil says as he turns away to walk right out of the kitchen as though nothing happened, "sweet, and a little spontaneous."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have a preference for Medley content as opposed to Pact, please bear with me as I ride out this high. I will definitely be coming back to this one shot collection in the future!! Stay wonderful, y'all. *finger guns* ❤️


	10. Fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloweenies!! We don't really celebrate it with as much fervour as most of y'all down here in my neck of the woods, but I hope for those of you guys who do get into it, I hope y'all have fun!!! Stay safe! 🙏❤️✨
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy this update too?! I'm cutting it pretty close tbh, there's like 45 minutes left of Halloween for me, and I kind of have work in the morning but oh well yolo sdfklj. I wanted to try for something a bit cute?! Not sure how well it goes over, but an attempt was made. 😔

There was a time shortly after the Qliphoth fiasco wherein Devil May Cry was inundated with jobs. Disposal of leftover roots, disposal of leftover Empusa (and the occasional Empusa Queen, now left wandering and lost, with no purpose)... come to think of it, a good chunk of the jobs that came in fell under general clean up of the aftermath. Janitorial duties of any kind are never fun of course, but those scant few months were the busiest that Dante's been in a long, _long_ time. And perhaps even the happiest, too. Cash flow was good (more or less), he was on good terms with his brother (more or less)... life just seemed to be working out for him for the first time in far too long. Like he'd been paid back on years worth of karma all at once. It was a refreshing feeling, to be honest, and one that was long overdue, if anybody were to ask Dante his opinion.  
  
(Nobody does though.)  
  
It's been a year since then, and incoming jobs and clients have inevitably, predictably slowed to a crawl. Although they always manage to get by on whatever jobs do come in, it's because of this very problem that Dante has to occasionally let his usual job standards slip a little and accept jobs below his ah… very particular skill set in order to keep the business afloat. It isn't all bad - he _did_ once front as a local handyman in his youth, and one of the perks of not having the money to hire actual tradesmen to fix odds and ends is that you eventually learn how to do all of that for yourself.  
  
More or less.  
  
Here's hoping the plastic tape he has wrapped around that cracked, drippy pipe will last a few more weeks - he's out of both tape _and_ money.  
  
And yet Vergil finds fault in this (hopefully) temporary set up, insisting that they maintain their standards and only accept clients who know the password. After all, if word gets out that Devil May Cry really _is_ accepting jobs of any mundane and menial nature with little to no vetting process, it sets a rather unprofessional precedence. It implies they have no standards. Implies that they are desperate. Even though they are. From there, clients then not only ask for them for all sorts of demeaning jobs, but they also become stingy and start negotiating for lower fees. In Vergil's eyes, all of this has a pointed and unpleasant domino effect on their business as a whole and so refuses to take such jobs himself. _Somebody_ has to take a stand on this, and if Dante has no interest in preserving their livelihood, then that somebody obviously has to be Vergil.  
  
And so, in these dire times, with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Dante has no choice but to turn to _you._  
  
"So what's this job, exactly?" You're not asking to be skeptical, you have every intention of taking the offer. If not for your sake, then theirs - it's been rough recently.  
  
Dante waves his hand casually. "Nothing major. There've been reports of a number of 'paranormal activities' in Red Grave's dead zones."  
  
You cringe. So some (or a lot of) parts of Red Grave are nigh unsalvageable and thus unlivable thanks to the Qliphoth literally upending them, but was it really necessary to slap such a morbid name on those areas? Although come to think of it, with a name like _Red Grave City_ , maybe it actually isn't too far off the mark, after all.  
  
"Paranormal activities?" You're trying your best not to sound sarcastic, but with the way Dante shrugs at you, you probably weren't too subtle. "That isn't really our field of expertise. Aren't there people more suited to this?"  
  
"Probably." Dante flips open a ledger that he pilfered from Vergil's desk. Since his brother is refusing to budge on his stance, Dante has to (figuratively) pull up his pants. "But everyone else is booked up and beggars can't be choosers."  
  
"Right…" Well that's certainly fair, but you're still apprehensive. You've gotten comfortable with demon hunting enough that the twins (more so Vergil than Dante) are quite confident in your ability to complete a job alone, but _ghost_ hunting? The extent of your knowledge in that area boils down to the obviously staged reality shows that plague late night television. Beyond those overacted theatrics, the art - if it can be called such - is lost on you. "What exactly do you mean by paranormal activities though?"  
  
That has Dante quirking an eyebrow at you. "What it normally means? Unexplained happenings. Noises. Voices. Y'know, like a haunting. It's gotten to the point where it's spooking the workers enough that they're all on strike - city's officially declared the area a dead zone to keep the public from losing its shit over _another_ otherworldly mishap, and that's where we come in." There's only a measured silence from you, which, coupled with the crease in your brow makes Dante lean forward in his seat, suddenly interested. "Why're you asking? You scared of ghosts?"  
  
" _No_ ." Honestly, you may as well have just admitted it outright with how immediate and transparent your retort is. The attempt to salvage your dignity is just as empty. "I'm not _scared_ of ghosts. I just… don't like them."  
  
"Soooooo you're scared." The decided lack of any intonation implies a statement rather than a question, and Dante can see that you're ready to bite back because of it. He rather shrewdly cuts you off before you're able to. "Look. Call it hunter's intuition, but I have my doubts it's anything supernatural. Best case, it's a bunch of punks playing a prank. Worst case, it's a demon trying something different for once. Either way, it's easy money."  
  
You don't buy it for a second. "Well no. The worst case is that it _is_ ghosts. What am I supposed to do exactly? Throw salt at it? Do we even _have_ salt?"  
  
Dante blows out a lungful of air as he taps his desk in thought. "...I mean, I've probably got a couple of salt sachets around here somewhere - swiped them from a diner a couple weeks ago." And as if to make a point, he starts sifting through the drawers in his desk one by one, mumbling quiet nothings to himself as he goes.  
  
The implication that the Devil May Cry kitchen doesn't (or perhaps more accurately, _can't_ ) even stock salt isn't lost on you. You fold your arms across your chest, shifting on the spot as you transfer your weight from one foot to the other. "Seriously?"  
  
"Yes…?" Dante's rather indignant as he closes all his drawers again, obviously having given up his search. Knowing his luck, he'll probably remember where he stashed them the second you walk out the door. "What were you gonna do with it anyway? Mildly inconvenience a ghost with a sprinkle of salt? You only just got done giving _me_ a hard time about that."  
  
"Well what _am_ I supposed to do then?" You've progressed to full blown incredulity now. "Ask politely for it to leave? If that was something you could do, those contractors probably didn't have to strike."  
  
"Just hold tight." Pushing up out of his chair, Dante rounds his desk and makes for the second floor landing. Since Vergil made his return, that area now functions as a space to store items of interest - trinkets for Nico, Devil Arms, pretty much any and all goods pertaining to their work - but it speaks to how little it gets used when the mere act of climbing the steps dislodges actual _dust_ from underneath the stairway. "Think I've got some old vials of Holy Water around here somewhere. It's been a good couple of years since I got 'em, but I don't think divine blessings have a 'use by' date, so you should be good.  
  
"I think." The casual way Dante's handling this doesn't inspire confidence in the least.  
  
"You know, you're almost making me want to take my chances with the salt packets."  
  


* * *

  
  
To say the scene before you is atmospheric would be doing it a disservice. This particular stretch of town was declared a dead zone only two weeks ago, as contractors came to the conclusion that the foundations were 'far too unstable to rebuild on'. It was then decided that it would be best to focus their efforts on the areas that _were_ , at least until Red Grave could be deemed livable once more in the public eye, and so just… left things as they were, machinery and all. It's all lies, of course, excuses to feed to the city. After all, what would the general public think if it knew of more otherworldly hindrances cropping up within the city? It's only been a year since the Qliphoth catastrophe, and the wounds it tore through the city grounds have only barely begun to scab over - it's still far too soon for another misfortune regardless of the scale of it. But looking at the stretch of land before you, it's hard to tell the true nature of the area's closure; the roads are cracked and torn, with visible trails of indents left behind by the Qliphoth's roots; buildings have been split into two at best, wrapped in dead and dried up tendrils, and reduced to rubble at worst; the familiar dried up husks of people, once real, living and breathing humans litter the streets in multitudes; cars, bikes, trucks, vehicles of all shapes and sizes (even a few police cars, you note) are all but abandoned with their doors left wide open. It's the very picture of a modern apocalypse, and that's just this single area. It's hard to even imagine the sight before you is real - it just looks like something out of a movie to you.  
  
But it is all real. The abandoned trucks and industrial-sized tractors and cranes off to the side are a sobering reminder of the city's efforts to fix their broken city. The flood lights that were once used to keep the area lit even as contractors worked through the night now sit in the dark. And _lord_ is it dark out here - this section of city has been effectively cut off from the city's power grid, not just because nobody can live here anymore, but because you'd be surprised if anything even worked. It's a blessing that the moon is high above tonight, occasionally peeking through gaps between wispy clouds, bathing the abandoned region in beams of silver light. But it also casts foreboding shadows too, ones that stretch and seem to morph and twist as the clouds pass by overhead, ignorant and oblivious. It's sad. It's lonely.  
  
And you really, really, _really_ hope it isn't haunted.  
  
Is that even possible anyway? Sure, hundreds of citizens were killed in this one sector alone, but to haunt this place? How do ghosts even decide whether a location is worth haunting? Are there protocols in place? Manuals that every ghost is given upon death? _Annual meetings?_ The thought provides a meagre sense of comfort - that even in death, humans are bumbling and confused, but when you look back at what lies before you, the feeling subsides, and the dread, cold and biting, returns. Maybe you really _should_ have let Dante take the job in your stead. Why do you have to be so stubborn??  
  
Half turning on the spot, you gaze longingly back at Dante's Cavaliere. He'd let you borrow it for the evening, figuring it would be easier for you to navigate narrow paths blocked by debris, but you're not as skilled at riding it as he is. The engine - or what passes for one on this demonic machine - is far too powerful for you to control in such narrow passages, and so you've opted to leave it on the main roads. In safety. Where you so desperately want to remain. Even in spite of its jagged silhouette, it instills a sense of warmth and comfort in you, a notion that no amount of darkness or chilling wind or creepy moonlight can possibly harm you. Though an otherworldly and deadly tool in its own right, there's safety in the booming roar of its now silent engine - like a protective ward. How pissed would Dante be if you got right back onto it and just.. drove off? Not enough that he'd hold it against you certainly, but you do remember hearing that the bills are overdue again, and if possible, you'd rather not be the one responsible for plunging the twins back into literal darkness. As good as Vergil looks bathed in the gentle, flickering glow of candlelight, you know he'd much rather the steady hum of electricity.  
  
It's just easier for him to read by.  
  
With a resigned sigh, you heft your cleaver over your shoulder (why did you even bring it?) and make for the expanse of crumbled debris before you. There are signs posted all over the place the closer you get. Official reminders that this part of the city has been cordoned off and is strictly prohibited.  
  
SITE CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE  
  
SEVERE FOUNDATIONAL INSTABILITY  
  
NO PEDESTRIANS AT ANY TIME  
  
And perhaps the most foreboding of all:  
  
SITE DECLARED A DEAD ZONE. ENTRY STRICTLY FORBIDDEN  
  
It's only when you're walking right by it that you notice there's an extra message spray painted on by some delinquent trying to make a point. It's written in that distinctive, dripping graffiti-esque scrawl that you can only just make out on the best of days: NO HELP. NO HOPE. It makes you scoff quietly - it's hard to say who's right in this situation. The city is under immense pressure to rebuild not only its physical presence, but its confidence too; in the government; in its ability to handle a crisis; in its people. Idealistic and optimistic as it is, you want to believe they're doing what they can, but the abandoned trucks and cranes, the lavish parties thrown by the rich without a care for the disaster that's befallen the city, the promises of reconstruction that are beginning to sound empty… all of them sow seeds of doubt. It'll be a long time before Red Grave can truly recover.  
  
You give that final sign a soft, but rueful kick as you move past.  
  
With your free hand, you lift up the yellow police tape that physically (and rather pathetically, for all the signage) blocks off the area to duck underneath it, crossing the threshold from relative safety and into the remnants of chaos. Immediately, it gives off a noticeably different air - the breeze whistles eerily between rubble, and the moonlight that seemed so gentle earlier now feels cold and unforgiving, creating more shadow than light. It's just your imagination, you try to reason with yourself. There are more jagged shapes and broken precipices here than the functional parts of Red Grave, and _that's_ why there's an abundance of ominous shadows and unidentifiable shapes in the darkness. It has nothing to do with what's supposedly lurking these abandoned parts. It has _nothing_ to do with this place apparently being haunted. Nothing at all--  
  
A whisper then echoes amidst the rubble around you, coming from all directions, yet also from nowhere, and you instinctively reach behind you to close your fingers around the hilt of your sword. It isn't blessed in any way, shape or form, it can't possibly hurt anything that falls under the wide spectrum of the supernatural, but like a security blanket woven from iron, it brings you comfort nonetheless. More so than the shady vials of Holy Water you have tucked away in your satchel at any rate. Maybe that's why you brought it with you at all. Nevertheless, the presence of something here is undeniable now. You've never really possessed the sort of keen senses that allow you to feel the presence of demons or otherwise, but there's a certain hair-raising chill in the air, a breath at the back of your neck that tells you in no uncertain terms that you are not alone here. But there's one notion that segues off that that's more unsettling to you, enough that your weapon rattles in your hand out of fear:  
  
If you've been alerted to the presence of something out in these ruins, then you can be sure that the reverse is also true.  
  
You swallow painfully and force the thought out of mind. It has no place here. It does not control you. And perhaps most insulting of all is that it's barely been two minutes and you're already gripping your weapon tight enough to turn your knuckles a pearly white.  
  
"Shut up." Your voice is a soft rasp, only just loud enough to be heard over the gentle clattering of your cleaver. The whispers however, continue unabated, as if mocking you for your fear. As if they know your backbone is paper thin and but a breath away from tearing to pieces. And it's that simple notion that urges you to raise your voice. Spite is often a powerful motivator. "Knock it off already!"  
  
Immediately, the incoherent whispering ceases in one fell swoop, the abruptness of it making the ensuing silence all the more poignant, all the more deafening. Even the breeze stops blowing, and overhead, the moon hides away behind the clouds, drawing a dark curtain over the entire sector. You can't work like this, but at least you thought to come prepared, fishing around in your satchel for a torch - unlike a certain three men, you don't possess the acute vision they do, instead having to rely on more conventional methods to keep up. There are times you've actually considered investing in a pair of night vision goggles, but they always seem so cumbersome to put on. Bulky and heavy. No, for now at least, a simple torch will suffice, its thin cone of light providing just enough for you to see by. And from somewhere, perhaps above in one of the dilapidated buildings, perhaps around the corner, you hear the distinct sound of rubble being dislodged. Not an unusual noise for this part of town, especially under these circumstances, but it's something you think to keep in mind going forward.  
  
And go forward you do.  
  


* * *

  
  
You're not entirely sure what it is you're supposed to be looking for. Usually, demons are loud, with those capable of speech announcing their arrivals in arrogance, as if anybody listening has the faintest idea of who they're supposed to be, often leaving trails of destruction in their wake as evidence of their presence. Ethereal beings aren't capable of such, and you can't quite decide if that's a good or a bad thing. On one hand, they can't actually harm you if they're not corporeal, but on the other… are you _actually_ supposed to just throw the Holy Water at them? Would it have been more effective to funnel it all into spray bottles for easier spritzing? Maybe you should have paid more attention to those phony ghost hunting shows on TV. Even if they _are_ fake, they'd have to at least build off existing fundamentals of the practice, no? Having even those would be preferable to now, you think, as you sweep your torch from side to side while you move through the barren street, looking for… well, anything out of the ordinary, you suppose. Anything that doesn't fall in line with the work of demons.  
  
Like the flowing silhouette of a woman, too tall to be a regular human, even hunched over as she is. Her robes, more like tattered rags hanging off her gaunt frame, flutter in slow motion, as if caught in a breeze that currently isn't blowing, billowing with a gentle ambience that contradicts the chilling air she gives off. You can't see her face, not when she's slouched as she is, but even if she weren't, her long hair falls in thick, matted knots over her head, obscuring nearly her entire being. You stop moving when your torchlight falls on her, feeling the blood drain from your face as your heart begins to race, because that? That's a fucking ghost if you ever saw one, _and that is_ **_not_ ** _okay, NO SIR_ . Your free hand twitches at your side as your instinct battles with your common sense - do you reach for the safety of your weapon, or the Holy Water that might not even work?  
  
"M-ma'am?" What are you doing? "Are you lost?" Why are you trying to talk to what is _clearly_ a ghost? "If you need… assistance, I-I can escort you back to the city."  
  
No answer.  
  
~~Why were you expecting one?~~  
  
Despite yourself, the fear that's keeping you firmly rooted to the spot, you can hear yourself chuckle. Even to you, it comes across as a defeated, hopeless noise, because why? _Why did you come here?!_ What were you hoping to achieve?! Proving a point to Dante isn't worth this!!  
  
An actual shriek tears from your throat when, from somewhere behind you, something descends from the pitch black sky, landing with a soft whump and a scattering of dust and sand. You were taught never to take your eyes off the enemy, never to turn your back on an opponent, but the sound, coupled with your distressed state of mind has you whipping around, aiming your torch, now veritably shaking, at the new disturbance. The dust has yet to clear, but you're already scraping around in your satchel, desperately feeling around for one of the glass vials with numb fingers. When your fingers finally do close over the surprisingly warm container, you swing back around to where the woman was standing, only to find that spot now completely empty. The sound that you make falls somewhere between a squeal and a whimper as you back up several steps to put more distance between you and that worryingly empty void, as if the wider berth will let you find her all the sooner. But your back suddenly collides with something. Not the scratchy mason of a wall, nor the cold steel of a dead transformer box, but something warm, and something very alive.  
  
Your vision is on the verge of blurring out of sheer lightheadedness with all the whirling and twirling that you've been doing in the last ten or so seconds, and it's a vulnerability you can't afford to have exploited. Pulling your hand out of your satchel and clutching at a vial of Holy Water, you twist your body around one final time, drawing your arm back with the intention of shoving it, glass and all, right into fucking the mouth of whatever you've bumped into, but before you can make contact, your wrist is seized and you're pulled towards your captor. The cone of your torch falls upon a familiar head of silver, and an even more familiar squint.  
  
"What are you doing?" Vergil asks. In the glare of your torch, his eyes look even more bleached than they normally do.  
  
"VergiljesuschristIthoughtIwasgoingtodie…!" Relief washes over you immediately and with enough force that your knees buckle underneath you. If Vergil wasn't paying attention (although can that ever be said to be the case?), you'd have collapsed right onto the road, but both of his arms shoot out to support your weight effortlessly, letting you sag against him in a momentary lapse of your usual courage. He's so warm. Always so warm.  
  
"What are you doing?" He tries again, gentler this time. His hand that's holding onto your wrist slides downwards to cover yours as he plucks the vial from your fingers. Even in spite of the fact you didn't know it was him, you really _were_ intending to smash that right into his face. He doesn't know if he ought to be proud or worried.  
  
"Ghosts--" The single word comes out in a high pitched peep, muffled against his vest where your face is pressed.  
  
Vergil has to fight the urge to smile. It's inappropriate for the current context, but he distantly realises _this_ is why you never watch horror movies with him. It isn't because you think they're stupid, it's because you're scared. The only indication of his amusement that he allows is a brief exhale, and then he's grasping your shoulders in both hands to pry you off him. The indignant look on your face actually does make one corner of his lips twitch upward.  
  
"You're afraid of ghosts?"  
  
Even if it's your boyfriend, even if Vergil doesn't say it with the teasing lilt like Dante does, having the question thrown out into the world like that has you positively reeling, and you hastily reach for the vial he now holds in his hands, retrieving it and dropping it back into your satchel with a quiet huff. That gut wrenching fear you felt only moments ago is all but gone. Of course it is - you're with Vergil now. Hell, you think that even if it was anybody else, the end result would have been the same.  
  
"Of course I'm scared of ghosts!!" If this is the hill you're going to die on, then you're sure as hell going to make them work to kill you. "Monsters? No problem! Demons? Piece of cake! Those are problems that go away if you apply enough violence. But you know what that rule doesn't apply to? You know what's immune to stabbing? _Ghosts!!_ " You fling yourself forward into him again, feeling a different sort of defeat sweep through you. This one is boneless in that it's a little sad, a little pathetic, and maybe a touch humoured. Vergil actually does let himself smile when you whine pathetically into his chest. "I can't fight a ghost, and that's some stupid bullshit."  
  
"Then lucky for you, I showed up. Dante wanted me to give you something." Interested, you pry yourself off Vergil once more, recomposing yourself with a rough swipe of the back of your hand over your nose. This gives him the time to reach into his coat, withdrawing something in a closed fist that he holds out to you, eyes watching you expectantly. You catch on, holding both hands out, and into your open palms, Vergil drops several packets of salt.  
  
Without blinking an eye, and without any fanfare whatsoever, you tilt your hands downwards and let them fall to the floor in silent protest.  
  


* * *

  
  
"I can't believe he had you come all the way out here for a laugh." Except you really can. It's Dante after all.  
  
It's strange how Vergil's arrival effortlessly defused all the tension in the air. The two of you are walking side by side through a haunted dead zone, but the conversation flows as easily and as casually as if you were back at the office.  
  
"When he informed me of your peculiar adamance to take this job, I can't say I was against the idea." He admits that a little too easily, resulting in a playful shove to his shoulder. It barely throws him off balance, but to your credit, it wasn't supposed to.  
  
"Sure, make fun of the kiddy human." A break in the cloud coverage above allows the moon to once again illuminate the street, urging the darkness back inch by inch, but you don't make any motion to put your torch away just in case, opting to continue making wide sweeps with it as the two of you walk the streets together. It's still deathly quiet in this part of town, the only sounds being your footsteps, and the occasional scratchy sound of loose rubble - the same as before. For some reason though, it isn't worrying you like it did earlier in the evening. "I mean… aren't you scared of anything?"  
  
Vergil takes a deep breath at your question, but you continue forward oblivious, still watching the opposite side of the street. He thinks back on his time as Nelo Angelo, and though the memory of that armour, cold, constricting and biting into his flesh is one that will never fade, the sting of it has diminished over the months. He's even come to terms with his nightmares - three presences in his life he actually finds he misses from time to time. The chicken perhaps most of all. Griffon was infuriating at the worst of times, but in hindsight, it was rather endearing… You'd probably have liked talking to Griffon.  
  
Or arguing. Whatever.  
  
"Not anymore," he finally answers, making you pivot back around to face him. You want to ask him what he means by that, to have him elaborate a little more, but the way Vergil is staring straight ahead of him, pace gradually slowing, makes you reconsider. You follow his gaze forward, both your eyes and torchlight falling on the object of Vergil's interest at the same time.  
  
It's her again. The woman? Apparition?  
  
She's still hunched over in a half crouch, her face is still obscured by her hair, and her robes still billow with a slow, unworldly quality. But she's making noise now, a ragged, high pitched gasp as if she's struggling to breathe. Down at his side, Vergil feels a tug at his sleeve, and with an almost imperceptible cant of his head, he spares a fleeting glance down to where you've pinched the very end of his sleeve between your thumb and index finger - you were calm mere moments ago, but the presence of this woman clearly unnerves you. And he can't have that.  
  
A sizzle permeates the air as a phantom blade forms over Vergil's shoulder. It begins as mere wisps at first, before coalescing into the ever familiar shape of a summoned sword, and in the next second, he launches it toward her. You want to cry out when he does so, objecting to the very nature of his assault - physical attacks shouldn't work, after all. But the words never make it past your lips because while the sword does pass cleanly through her, the point of trajectory creates an almost rippling effect on the rest of her body, not unlike the surface of a freshly disturbed body of water.  
  
And then she disappears, her body simply dispersing and vanishing into the air itself.  
  
"I thought so." Comes Vergil's quiet proclamation.  
  
"Wait-- You thought what?" The light from your torch lingers on the empty spot for a few more seconds, gently bobbing to the left and right as if you're still worried she might reappear.  
  
"We're, as Dante would put it, being pranked." Now that the immediate 'threat' before the two of you has been dealt with, Vergil takes this moment to survey the surrounding area, particularly up at the windows of nearby buildings. "I sensed the presence of many beings in the area when I arrived. They dispersed when we met up, but they've been following us ever since. And based on the nature of what I've seen, their numbers, their perceived sizes, their lack of interest in direct confrontation, I believe what we're dealing with are imps."  
  
It takes you a brief moment to process what Vergil's saying, but when you do, you blanch. Because really? Imps? Those tiny little troublemakers?  
  
"Oh my _god_ ." It's then that the realisation hits you - this is what you've been hearing all night. Those quiet disturbances, always in the distance, always so soft because they were made by tiny little imp feet as they monitored you from safety. "Those little rat bastards!!" You adjust the strap that sits diagonally across your body, pulling the satchel further around your back so that it's safely tucked away when you reach behind you to draw your gleaming weapon. There's a certain way that the blade of it catches the moonlight, glinting menacingly into the darkness - a reflection of the intent of its bearer, perhaps. With the very tip of your blade touching the floor, you stomp forwards, dragging it along the ground and adding sparks of bright orange to the cacophony of monochrome. "Come on out! I want a refund on all that fear I poured into your little shitshow!!"  
  
You're being loud. You're being obnoxious. But it's deliberate. The chance that it'll spur the… however many imps are out there into action is slim, given their innate nature to stick to the safety of furtivity, but it's more a means for you to channel your frustration than anything else. It's just a shame that in your outburst, you don't notice that the road below you is cracking under your weight. How could you possibly have known this whole strip of road is nothing but a vast cavern below your feet? You couldn't of course, until gravity dictates that the tarmac gives from under you, and all of a sudden, you're treading nothing but air as you fall.  
  
As it turns out, this particular section of the city really is a dead zone after all.  
  
You lose your grip on your weapon as you tumble downwards into the darkness, and for the whole second that you're facing the gaping maw that you're falling directly into, you watch helplessly as it spins into the abyss below.  
  
Over the rush of air that rings in your ears, you hear your name being called behind (or above?) you, and you twist your body as best as you're able to see Vergil in freefall not far from you. His hand is stretched toward you, your eyes naturally moving up the length of his arm up to his face. It could be because you're currently seconds from becoming a messy splat on whatever passes as the floor for this ravine, but you feel a twinge in your chest.  
  
That flicker in his eyes.  
  
That look on his face.  
  
You don't remember anything after that.  
  


* * *

  
  
When your eyes open next, it's to the brilliant light of the morning sun, the smell of mint, and the feel of being cocooned in soft warmth.  
  
It's Vergil's room.  
  
You're in Vergil's bed.  
  
And he's sitting on a stool that he pulled up, a book in hand that he snaps closed when he hears you stir.  
  
"Do you know where you are?" His line of questioning isn't going where you thought it would, but you realise that's because he wants to ensure you're well, and that you aren't concussed. That obviously means somewhere along the way, during the fall perhaps, you hit your head. Funny how that is though, because you're not in any pain…  
  
"In your bed." You reply simply. Lifting the covers that adorn your body, you steal a quick glance underneath them. "And basically naked."  
  
_Nice_ . Although the look on Vergil's face implies he doesn't quite share that particular sentiment.  
  
"Can you tell me what happened last night?" Swivelling around on the stool, he leans forward to slide his book onto his bedside table before turning his full attention back to you.  
  
You hum as you pull yourself up into a sitting position, vaguely scooting closer to him in the process. He notices this of course, but doesn't say anything. "Not anything I wanted, I'll tell you that much."  
  
An amused snort and a slight shake of his head is your only response for a time, but he eventually relents, deciding that your answers are sufficient in proving (to a degree) that you aren't messed in the head. At least not in the way he was worried about. "That was quite a revelation I got from you last night. I hadn't pegged you as the type to be afraid of ghosts." Though Vergil's expression is passive, the mirth in his tone is unmistakable, making you give him a mild head shake of your own.  
  
"Yeah well, I got something from you last night too." You tug at the sheets that cover you, lifting them higher to pin them in place under your arms. The arched brow that Vergil quirks at you is your silent prompt to continue. "You said you're not scared of anything anymore, but don't think I didn't see it."  
  
"See what?" In times like these, it's hard to tell whether he genuinely doesn't understand what you're saying, or if he's simply playing along. But all you have to do to glean the truth is to look into his eyes. They always tell more than he lets on, and this bright morning is no different - they shine with an amicable lustre. He's absolutely playing along. You shift your position on his bed, rising onto your knees in a pseudo kneel and taking half his bed linens with you as you go, planting both your hands on either of his knees to support your weight when you lean forward into him.  
  
Even in the heat of the moment where your life hung delicately between Vergil's outstretched hand and the ground below, you remember his expression with a fierce clarity. The desperation. The concern.  
  
The fear.  
  
You tilt your head at him, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. "You were scared, weren't you? When I fell."  
  
It's for only the barest, most fleeting juncture, but Vergil's eyes flit away from yours, a thoughtful hue colouring his expression to accent his rueful smile as he lowers his head into your shoulder - an unspoken indication of his defeat. Vergil's next words are murmured gently into your bare skin, making a warmth bloom inside your chest to match his arms circling your waist.  
  
"...I was."  
  
Angling your head, you press a light kiss to his temple. Sometimes a ghost is really a demon, and sometimes a half demon is cute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright I'm going to bed sdfgldjfh good night everyone and thank you so much for reading, your endless support for this series has been so heartwarming. ;A; ❤️❤️


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